Grease
by Henry Plantagenet
Summary: About a month after the sad demise of Tom Riddle, a certain greasy haired individual, who thought he was going to die, has somehow survived. Harry is understandably reluctant to meet him...
1. Chapter 1

_This story starts off about a month after the sad demise of Tom Riddle. A certain greasy haired individual, who thought he was going to die, has somehow survived. I'll leave it to your imagination to figure out how and why. Harry Potter, who has in his possession a crystal jar full of the said individual's memories, is understandably reluctant to meet him..._

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**GREASE**

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**Chapter 1**

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Hermione could be bossy; we all knew that. But at that particular moment, she was surpassing her own best efforts in that regard.

"You've got to give it back to him," she snapped.

"I'll do it," I said. "I'm just waiting to check first when he'll be free to see me."

Hermione snorted. "He's only just recovered. How busy can a sick person be?"

I took a different tack, a more honest one this time.

"It's horribly embarrassing for me to meet him. So why don't you take it round to his place and give it back to him yourself, on my behalf?"

I took the crystal jar of Snape's memories down from the cupboard in which I had carefully placed it. But her stern eye compelled me to place it back on the shelf again.

"They are his memories. They belong to him. Or to you, the person to whom he's entrusted them. You can't be so careless with them as to send them through a messenger. Why, he might think that I've been looking at them! And Harry," Hermione's face assumed its most prim and proper look, "that's the last thing I'd ever want to do."

I wearily reviewed in my mind a selection of insults that would suit the present situation, but rejected them all. She was right. Hermione was right. I was avoiding Snape.

"If you think I'm never going to see him, then why d'you waste your time trying to persuade me," I asked, irritably. Something in my voice indicated clearly to Hermione that this would be a good time to change the subject, or leave the house. She did both. I heard her footsteps descend the stairs of the Weasley house, and the closing of the front door. But I did not hear the door open again, minutes later, because I was wrapped up in my own thoughts.

x

This was the mother of all messes. I had never been so confused in my life. Professor Snape, thinking that he was dying, had given his memories to me. But he had survived. And as Hermione repeatedly reminded me, (about two hundred times a day,) they had to be given back to him.

But I could not face meeting Snape, and – I had to admit it – I was reluctant to give up that crystal jar. My attitude to that jar was becoming like Hermione's attitude to the average textbook. I wanted to devour every last bit of it. Snape's memories had become a route of escape from the fractured world around me. I looked forward to plunging into them every day – they had become my drug, my obsession. It was a relief to get away from the dead numbness of the present, into the passions and hatreds of the past.

Sometimes it seemed to me that Tom Riddle was more alive now, than he had ever been before. He lived on in the madness of grief in the eyes of the bereaved, and in the festering wounds of those who'd survived – wounds that might never be healed. All joy, cheer and hope had been bled out of the lives of the people I loved most, leaving them pale ghosts of their former selves, who numbly, mechanically, went about the business of their daily lives.

Somehow, everything that I saw within that cracked, chipped second-hand pensieve that I had purchased on Diagon Alley, seemed more alive, more real, than the world around me. And I got to spend as much time as I liked with my parents, too, albeit in the presence of another individual who was always in the picture. The individual whose memories I was exploring.

x

There was a peremptory knock on the door, and from its tone, I knew at once who it was. I let her in, noticing with some trepidation that she was almost brimming over with excitement.

"What," I asked.

"I've fixed it up," she said. "He'll meet you tomorrow at four o'clock."

"But how did you...?"

"Have you forgotten that admirable Muggle invention, the telephone?"

"He has one? But how did you know his number?"

"Looked it up in the directory. Tobias Snape."

"Thank you very much, Hermione," I said. The baleful glare that accompanied these words threw even Hermione off balance.

"Well, if you'd rather not, I could always ring back and..."

I shrugged. "It's best to get it over with, I suppose," I said, in a voice that doubted it. "Well, g'bye, Hermione."

x

Hermione gave a start. This was not a hint – this was a case of outright bad manners. But she fortunately decided to let me off the hook this time. Perhaps she felt that she'd been pushing me too hard.

"Goodbye, Harry," she said, in an almost kindly tone, and left.


	2. Chapter 2

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**GREASE**

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**Chapter 2**

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Glancing at the clock, I calculated that there was just enough time for me to have a final dive into the pensieve before I set out to return the memories to their rightful owner. But I'd have to be quick...

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...I plunged in, and found myself on platform nine and three fourths, at King's Cross station. The Hogwarts Express had just come in, and all was heat, steam and noise.

I knew what it was like to come back to a miserable home after a year of warm companionship at Hogwarts. But for the silent, grim-faced dark haired boy standing beside me, I knew it must have been different.

Had he enjoyed a happy year at Hogwarts? Perhaps. He did have friends – the Death Eater friends that my mother found so objectionable. But apart from the pleasant (or otherwise) companionship of those Death Eaters, Hogwarts must have been as unpleasant to him as his home.

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Long after everyone had been joyfully reunited with their parents and gone home, I stood beside him on the lonely platform, the minutes ticking by, waiting for the parents who would never come. He was forlorn figure in ill-fitting muggle clothes, lugging an outsize trunk. Yet there was an odd dignity about him. He showed no outward signs of anger, hurt or impatience.

After waiting much longer, and more patiently, than most students would reasonably wait, he finally stood up to leave. He would try to get home on his own. Heaving the unwieldy trunk, his foot slipped and one of his bags crashed down onto a stranger's foot. This, on top of everything else, was too hard for him to take. There were tears in his eyes as he apologised to the man whose foot he had hurt.

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The stranger was a tall, dignified man in an overcoat, with a pleasant face and smiling eyes. He assured Snape that his foot was quite all right. (It didn't look all right to me.) And he asked if no one had come to meet him.

"I do not wish to intrude, my boy, but I've been here for a while now, loading my crates of books onto the train, and I couldn't help noticing..."

Snape nodded, in utter humiliation. "I think they must have forgotten the date, sir."

It occurred to me that not even the Dursleys, offensive as they were, had ever forgotten to pick me up at the station. The stranger, who introduced himself as Gwillim Tudor, offered to take Snape home, an offer that Snape gratefully accepted.

x

Taking his hand, Gwillim Tudor gracefully apparated with Snape and his luggage to the dilapidated Snape home. If Mr Tudor found the boy's home to be utterly repulsive, he considerately showed no sign of it. He knocked and waited. No one came to the door.

Standing outside on the porch, waiting for the door to open, they heard the sound of a man's voice raised in anger. This was followed by a woman's voice raised in pleading, and then the sound of a crash, as if someone had fallen down... or been brutally knocked down?

Snape turned white. But with impeccable manners, he thanked the man who had brought him home and requested him, with pleading eyes, not to trouble himself to wait.

Mr. Tudor hesitated, reluctant to leave the boy alone on the doorstep of what was obviously a violent, unhappy home. He took out his card and handed it to Snape. The card opened and closed itself in Snape's hand, like a book. "I am a publisher of books," said Mr. Tudor. "Here's my card. As you can see from the address, my place of work is not far from here. I will leave now, but Severus, I'll look forward to the pleasure of a visit from you."

"Thank you, sir," said Snape. "If it had not been for you I..." he grimly swallowed back his tears.

"You are very kind, sir."

Gwillim Tudor shook hands with him, squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, limped down the path to the gate, and disappeared in a flash.

x

After he had left, Snape violently rang the doorbell.

The door opened and his parents stood before him. I waited for the storm to break, but to my amazement nothing of the sort happened. He calmly geeted them, and informed them that his holidays had begun. He kissed his mother tenderly and told her to go to her room and rest.

x

And for the next few hours, Severus Snape proceeded to cook dinner, clean the the house and generally restore the place to order.

I could see the change in his parents. His father visibly relaxed after enjoying a hearty dinner. His mother's sprits revived too, in the calm, protective presence of her son.

Snape had just got home after a tiring journey and a long, humiliating wait at the station. But he did not speak of it, and he showed no sign of strain.

It was only late at night, in the welcome privacy of his room, that he finally allowed his composure to crack.

x

He glared at his reflection in the mirror.

"You ugly, hook–nosed greasy haired git," he said to himself in what was unmistakably an imitation of James Potter's voice. 

To be fair to my father, I don't remember ever having heard him call Snape that. Snivellus, yes. Ugly git, yes. But never an ugly, hook – nosed etc., etc.

x

I broke off from my thoughts diverted by what Snape was doing now. He had taken up his wand. "Legal or illegal, I don't care," he muttered, and pointing it at his hair, he proceeded to utter a strange incantation.

I realised at once what he was trying to do – he was trying to de-grease his hair!

As he flicked his wand at it, his hair turned a bright red, then a dull green, and then acquired the colour and consistency of dry straw. If he hadn't exactly looked attractive with his customary curtains of greasy black hair, this was worse. Much, much worse. He stared at himself in the mirror, aghast. Then he turned to look at the door. It was unlocked. He ran across to it and hurriedly bolted it.

His privacy thus ensured, Severus Snape burst into tears.

x

...I emerged from the pensieve, more disturbed than I'd been when I'd plunged into it. I pulled out of my pocket the battered scroll of parchment in which I scribbled my thoughts on what I'd seen in the pensieve. It was frustrating to always be a looker-on all the time, watching and not participating. It gave me some relief to be able to scribble my thoughts into that scroll. It felt like I was doing something.

Noticing that there were already seven and a half inches of writing on it, I began feverishly to scribble into it again.

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	3. Chapter 3

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**GREASE**

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**Chapter 3**

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"What should I say to him when he opens the door," I asked.

"Say 'Good afternoon, Professor,' dear," said Mrs Weasley, attacking the back of my head with a comb. Despite her best efforts, my hair remained as upright as before. Hermione gave me an encouraging smile, too. "You can't go wrong with 'Good afternoon Professor,'" she said.

The trouble with these women was that they were so sentimental. Although I hadn't shared with them everything I had seen in the pensieve, I had made the mistake of giving them a slight hint of Snape's feelings for my mother. This had touched their tender feminine hearts, and I suspected that this was why I was being so strongly urged to visit, and make peace with, Professor Snape.

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And so I found myself outside Snape's front door, washed, cleaned, scoured, and exceedingly nervous. It took me a full seven minutes and fifty-one seconds to gather the nerve to raise my hand to the doorbell. It took another five minutes and thirty-eight seconds for me to persuade my reluctant hand to ring it.

The door opened and I found myself face to face with an elderly wizard in a frilly dressing gown tastefully decorated with delicate pink roses. I had probably come to the wrong house. I opened my mouth to explain my mistake and apologise for the intrusion. But because I was so nervous, the words that actually came out were the ones that I had carefully been instructed to utter :

"Good afternoon, Professor"

A familiar figure dressed in black materialised beside the man in the dressing gown. "Good afternoon, Potter," he replied. If he thought it odd that I'd mistaken the vision in frills and flowers for him, he gave no sign of it.

"Allow me to introduce to you Mr Archimedes Holland, of the publishing firm Holland and Tudor," said Professor Snape.

"Pleased to meet you, sir," I said courteously. My mind whirled feverishly as I exchanged a few commonplace pleasantries with Mr. Holland. This was bad. Once again, I'd got off on the wrong foot with Snape. I was sure he couldn't have taken kindly to having had a person in a woman's dressing gown mistaken for him. When I next saw Hermione, I'd have to tell her that yes, I had managed to go wrong with "Good afternoon, Professor."

The man in the dressing gown was taking leave of Snape now.

"Goodbye, Severus."

"Goodbye, Archie," said Snape, gravely shaking hands with him. Archie – the name rang a bell. Hadn't I seen him somewhere before? But before I could take a closer look at his face, Archie disapparated with a crack.

x

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Professor Snape now gave me his full attention.

"I should have thought that you'd be a little more familiar with my sartorial preferences by now, Potter," he said. I noticed something in those black eyes that I'd never seen before – the faintest hint of a smile.

I gave him a vague grin that was worthy of Luna Lovegood.

"Archie is a good friend, and a fine gentleman," said Snape, as he led me into his house. "For years and years, he was always immaculately turned out in a neat grey wizarding robe and shining black leather shoes. But ever since the last Quidditch World Cup, he's switched over to frilly Muggle dressing gowns… and I've never been able to figure out why."

The Quidditch World Cup! Of course – that's where I'd met Archie before.

"I remember seeing him at the World Cup, Professor. In fact he even explained the reason for his…er… unconventional attire."

"He did? And what was his reason," asked Snape, in a professorial manner.

I blushed a deep purple. "He said it was …um… more comfortable than conventional Muggle men's wear, Professor," I mumbled.

Fortunately, Professor Snape did not probe further.

x

x

"Make yourself comfortable, Potter," he said.

I looked around his living room, feeling somewhat disoriented by Snape's clean, comfortable home. I'd always imagined that he lived in a filthy hovel, decorated with pictures of torture victims. This cosy, cheerful home I was in didn't fit with my mental picture of Snape's natural habitat at all. This didn't look like a former Death Eater's living quarters. It looked like the home of a kindly old lady.

"I've met many of my father's friends, but…" I hesitated, then decided to say it. "…but this is the first time I'm meeting a friend of my mother's."

He looked amused.

"I used to tell Sirius, that I'd like to meet a close friend of my mother's, and he said… he said I should be careful what I wished for. My mother's best friend might not be the rosy-cheeked lady I imagined her to be, but might turn out instead to be an ugly Death Eater." I laughed out loud at Sirius' humour, and waited for him to follow suit. But he did not.

"I suppose it did not occur to you, Potter, that Sirius might not have been exercising his wayward sense of humour, but describing a real person."

My heart sank down to the soles of my feet. Ugly Death Eater. That was, in fact, a perfect description of Professor Snape.

"No, Professor, I… I'm quite sure that wasn't a … description of a real person," I stammered, staring intently at my shoes.

My feeble attempt to strike up a bit of friendly conversation with him had miserably backfired. I resolved to remain silent for the rest of my visit.

x

x

So there we sat in the room alone, not too sure what to say to each other. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, though. He was the same taciturn Professor Snape. The same "ugly Death Eater." But there was a difference in the way he looked at me now. A few subtle additions and subtractions… the subtraction of malice, and the addition of a touch of humour. Surprisingly enough, his eyes still had that hint of a smile in them, despite the horrendous blunder I had just made.

Was this hint of a smile his way of saying something that needed to be said, but was so difficult to say? … 'Let us put our hatred behind us, let us start afresh.'

All the same, I thought I'd better hand the crystal jar over to him as soon as possible, and make good my escape.

"I came to return your…er…property to you, Professor."

He took the shimmering jar from my hands, and I felt a sudden pang of regret to let it go. It was as though the most precious, most absorbing book in my possession had been snatched away from me before I'd finished reading it. It was like having a door slammed shut in my face.

I had found a friend in that crystal jar…a grim-faced, dark eyed friend who knew as well as I did what it was like to be an outsider; what it was like to live in a miserable, rotten home. Now this friend had been snatched away from me. And in his place was…

…Professor Snape. The man I'd made a habit of disliking for years and years. No it was not dislike – it was hatred. An outright hatred that was entirely mutual.

But hatred is a simple emotion – easy to understand; easy to handle. It was the idea of reconciliation that put me off. I remembered the time that Mrs Weasley and Fleur had put their mutual dislike behind them. There had been altogether too much hugging and crying involved in the whole business.

But there are fortunately other ways to start afresh. Professor Snape had simply cut out the malice from his glance, and left it at that. I knew that I was in no imminent danger of being hugged or cried over. So I decided to try to talk to him again.

"I… hope you are well now, Professor."

The last time I had seen him, a snake had been at his throat, and the terror of that sight was still with me. I saw it again and again in my dreams, along with all the other horrors I'd witnessed, and I'd wake up sweating and terrified.

"I'm all right," he said. "How are you, Potter?"

How was I? That was a question I preferred not to think about. That question was a can of worms that I dared not touch, let alone open.

"I'm all right," I said.

x

x

Well, everything was technically all right. I was of sound mind and body. The battle against Voldemort had been won. And I, the victor, had no excuse whatsoever to feel so lost.

And yet I did feel lost. And purposeless. Sometimes even homeless. If I really thought about it, where was my home? The cupboard under the stairs at the Dursleys'? Sirius' ghoulish residence, decorated with house-elf heads? The spare room at the Weasley home? I had no home of my own.

"I'm all right," I said again firmly, trying to convince both Professor Snape and myself of the truth of my statement.

He wasn't buying it, though. He had last tried to read my thoughts in our ill-fated Occlumency classes. Now, I felt him try to do so again. But this time, he seemed to be asking my permission to do so. An unspoken question entered my thoughts as gently as a whisper, as he looked into my eyes.

_Will you allow me to enter your mind?_

x

It was with regret that I answered wordlessly,

_Forgive me, but I cannot…_

x

The gentle whisper of thought spoke to me again.

_I understand._

x

My green eyes looked miserably into his dark ones.

_Thank you._

x

I tried to look away, but his gaze held mine a moment longer.

_If you ever decide to allow me to enter your mind, I will do so seeking not to ridicule, but to understand._

x

The black eyes turned away. I felt the faintest touch of his hand on my head. It half-ruffled my hair and was then withdrawn.

Not wanting to look at him, I took off my glasses, and pretended to polish them. Something fell on the floor as I pulled my handkerchief out of my pocket. I didn't notice what it was. I sat there, almost boring a hole in my glasses with the furious movement of my handkerchief over its perfectly clean surfaces.

Was this the man who had once violently intruded into my thoughts while teaching me Occlumency? He was allowing me to see a different side of him now. A side of himself that he had kept hidden for years. Hidden, but not inactive. That side of Professor Snape had saved my life over and over again. It had created potions to help Professor Lupin through the horrors of every full moon. It had sent a silver doe Patronus to guide me to Gryffindor's sword.

But I had never seen this side of him come out into the open before. The best part of Professor Snape had somewhat shyly and hesitantly come out of hiding at last.

He helpfully bent down pick up the battered scroll that had had fallen out of my pocket, when a sound from the fireplace caught his attention. The flames had turned emerald green, and an enormous golden harp rose out of the fire. A tall, lanky individual and a small dapper one, emerged from the fire too. I watched in amazement as they pulled the glittering instrument into Professor Snape's living room.

"Where do we put it," they asked cheerfully.

Professor Snape momentarily looked as startled as I did, then seemed to figure out why they had come.

"Stewart and Andy," he said, "there's been a change of plan. There was no need for you to bring these instruments here. I don't know if Gwillim is aware of this, but Archie and I decided this morning that we would have none of it. No music, no pictures. Just black print on a white page, leaving the rest to the imagination of our readers…"

Stewart had walked back into the fire and was only visible from the waist up. "Gwillim expressly instructed us to ignore your protests," he said with a grin, and pulling two mandolins and a lute out of the fire, he handed them to Andy, who arranged them artistically beside the harp.

Snape strode across to the fire.

"Gwillim," he bellowed into it, "I'd like a word with you…"


	4. Chapter 4

**GREASE**

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xx

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**CHAPTER 4**

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I gave a start of pleasure as Gwillim's familiar face appeared in the fire. He was older now, but still pleasant, still smiling.

"Severus," he said, "This is a special book for us. I never thought that you'd live to see it in print. So you must forgive an old man if he wants to publish it in the best possible form…"

Snape's expression softened at once. "Of course, Gwillim. But I just thought that…"

"We'll talk about it tomorrow," said Gwillim. "I see you have a guest now."

Turning to me, Gwillim suddenly gave me a very affectionate smile. I couldn't figure out why he was smiling at me so kindly. Did he know who I was? Or had he just recognised me from my scar? No – it wasn't the sort of smile people gave the famous (or infamous) Harry Potter when they recognised him. This was different.

"This is Harry," said Snape, making the introductions. He turned to me. "Harry, this is my good friend, Gwillim Tudor."

I gave Gwillim a very special smile, which was my way of thanking him for bringing Snape home from the station, and treating him so kindly all those years ago. I could tell that he was puzzled by the depth of affection in my smile, too. Somewhat embarrassed, he took leave of Snape and I, and disappeared.

x

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x

"Now," said Professor Snape, "where were we? Ah yes…"

He took up the scroll that was still in his hand. It suddenly hit me that he was holding the scroll of parchment in which I'd written to my friend in the crystal jar. In that scroll, I had addressed him as "Severus," and a mental review of all the things I'd written made me squirm with embarrassment. 'Severus,' I had written, 'that's not how you de-grease your hair. I've learnt how to do that from one of Hermione's hair care books. What you need to do is, point the wand at the crown of your head and then you say…'

Professor Snape was reading the scroll, his face almost expressionless. One particular paragraph seemed to hold his attention. He looked up at me and was about to say something. But noticing my discomfiture, he promptly stopped reading, rolled the parchment up again and handed it back to me.

"I haven't read much," he said reassuringly. "Just a little bit at the end…"

He suddenly smiled. (This was disturbing, for I had never seen him smile in all my years at Hogwarts. Not in a pleasant way, anyhow.)

"What was that spell again, Potter?"

"What spell," I muttered, "the hair one?"

"Yes," he said, walking across to a mirror that hung on the wall.

"_Olearius folatus abstergeo_," I said, staring intently at my shoes.

He looked thoughtfully into the mirror, tentatively fingering a strand of his hair.

"Hmmmmm," he said. "There should be no harm in trying it out…" He looked at me. "I've even tried Muggle shampoos on it, but nothing has ever worked. Well, will you say the words, or shall I?"

I lifted my wand, and pointed it carefully at the crown of his head. I muttered the words under my breath. "_Radiare splendeo,_" I added after that, for good measure.

The effect was instantaneous. All the grease was gone. And my last-minute addition to the spell had made his hair shine like spun silk. He stared into the mirror in amazement, trying to conceal his delight at the fact that a problem that had weighed on his mind for many years had finally been gloriously solved.

"If I had known you, Potter, when I was student at Hogwarts, my whole life would have been different."

"Rubbish," I muttered, "Who cares about hair, anyway."

His face sank back into blankness. "You're right, I suppose," he said, almost to himself. "It wasn't just my hair. It was my revolting face. It was my horrible parents. It was my Death Eater friends. It was my lack of Quidditch skills. It was my prejudice against Muggles…"

My harmless remark had somehow turned into a weapon with which he remorselessly flagellated himself. He was fifteen years old again, and miserable. Talking to his reflection in the mirror, he seemed almost to have forgotten that I was there. If I spoke to him now, would he regard it as an intrusion into his private thoughts? But I had to speak…

"You're not a Death Eater any more," I said. "Those friends are gone. Your parents are gone, too. You use muggle shampoo. You're half Muggle yourself. And as for the Quidditch…"

I stood up and roared _"Accio!"_ to my broom, which flew like lightning into my hand. I turned to Professor Snape. "C'mon," I said, and marched out of his house. "I'll take care of the Quidditch."

If he thought I was mad, he seemed to have decided to humour the lunatic for the present. Producing a set of Quidditch balls from a cupboard, he followed me, an amused look on his face. He even found us a good place to practice.

I gave him almost an hour and a half of remorselessly aggressive Quidditch instruction, trying to prove to him that he, too, could have done anything that James Potter had done. Modelling my teaching methods on his own, I insulted him, reprimanded him and even cursed him, in an effort to reproduce every Quidditch move that he had wistfully watched my father make, from the stands. For some strange reason, my new student did not rebel. Perhaps he understood that I was trying to say something to him that I didn't know how to put into words.

He even seemed to respond to my instruction. For my new student was no novice. He was a mature wizard, who handled his broom with a skill and grace that far exceeded my own. The lesson turned into a contest of skills, an exhilarating Quidditch match for two.

What a relief it was to me, to stop thinking for while and just enjoy a game of Quidditch against a worthy combatant. There were things he could do that I could have sworn Viktor Krum couldn't do. For Professor Snape didn't allow himself to be hampered by such things as rules. But it was fun. I hadn't enjoyed myself so much in a long while.

And I think he must have enjoyed it, too. After a long while, we finally descended to the ground, flushed and exhilarated. As he leapt off his broom, I looked at his smiling face, his raven hair catching the sunlight, and his green and silver Quidditch robes. If my mother had ever seen him like this, I wondered, would I have been erased from existence? Was this all that it took to win the girl of your dreams? Nice hair, a few Quidditch moves, and a smile on your face? And if you had the ill-luck not to have those little things, would you have to be sentenced to a life of mute misery? Life was unfair. So rottenly unfair.

"Something wrong, Harry?"

He had sensed that something was depressing me. And for the first time, he had called me 'Harry,' not 'Potter.' But obviously, I couldn't tell him what I was thinking about. When he saw that I did not wish to share my thoughts with him, he had the courtesy not to press me further. And if he was hurt that I did not choose to confide in him, he did not show it.

I moodily stomped back to his home, by his side.

x

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x

When we got back home, he built a blazing fire in his kitchen, sat me down in front of it, and started to put together the ingredients for something he planned to make, in the swift, efficient manner of a potions expert. But whatever he was concocting looked very different from any potion that I had ever seen him produce at Hogwarts. I wondered, somewhat apprehensively, whether I would be expected to consume the end result.

"Don't trouble yourself to make anything for me, Professor," I said, politely.

"It's no trouble at all," he said absently, consulting a battered Muggle notebook which apparently contained the instructions for his concoction.

"What is it," I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"I'm baking you a Muggle cake,' he said, neatly cracking a couple of eggs open with a flick of his wand. "Muggle methods of baking are undoubtedly inefficient, but their cakes do something that ours do not. As they bake, they fill the room with a most delicious aroma."

But my attention had wandered to the book in his hand.

"Is that… is that my mother's handwriting?"

He looked up, and gave me his full attention. "No, it is your grandmother's. This is Lily's mother's book of recipes."

I got up, and ran forward eagerly to look at my grandmother's writing. This was another person I had never met, who would have loved me if she had ever known me… I wondered if she'd had green eyes, too. I ran my fingers over the yellowed pages.

"Did she write these out for you," I asked.

"No," said Snape. "She did not. I stole this book from your mother's house. Had I been a more courteous, civilized human being, I would have replicated it and left her the original. But no. I stole it."

He opened the door of his Muggle oven and slid the mixture into it. Then, taking up his wand, he produced a mug of something steaming hot, and handed it to me.

"Thank you," I said, going back to the comfortable chair by the fire and settling down it. I gave the liquid in the mug a suspicious sniff. It was the colour of cockroaches, and there were strange, unidentified white objects floating in it. I had never before sampled any cooking that had not been produced by the acknowledged experts in the field – women and house-elves. (Though Aunt Petunia, I reflected, could hardly be termed an expert.)

I noticed Snape did not keep a house-elf. Hermione would approve. I noticed also that his kitchen was spotless and cheerful. He probably hadn't learnt to keep a house as cosy and comfortable as this from his own mother. Had he learnt it then from watching my grandmother? Lily's mother? There was much about Professor Snape that I did not know.

The fire crackled cheerfully in the grate, and the Muggle cake in the oven began to fill the room with what he had rightly called a delicious aroma. The hot chocolate he had made for me was also delicious, and he'd put marshmallows in it, too. Did his cooking skills derive from his skill at creating potions, or was it the other way round?

"Thank you," I said, quietly. He was doing all this for me.

"I was thinking," he said, "of what Lily might have done when you came home after a game of Quidditch, and I tried to do the same..."

x

x

x

x

Sometimes the most innocuous, kindly words can set your mind off on a train of thought that leads to a mad delirium of grief…

If my mother had been alive, I thought, would every day of my life have been like this? Would I have come home every day to a warm, cosy kitchen, with James and Lily taking care of me as lovingly as Snape was doing now? Until now I'd only had a vague idea of what growing up with my parents might have been like. I had seen something of it in the Weasley home, and in Hermione's warm Muggle home. But only now, in the home of my mother's hook-nosed, no-longer-greasy-haired Death Eater friend, did I fully understand what I had lost. The grief that flooded into my mind was so painful, so intense, that I can hardly remember now what I did then.

I managed to muster enough composure to stammer out my thanks to Snape; to tell him that I'd had a wonderful time, but regretfully had to leave immediately. Then I grabbed my broom, and headed for the darkening forest behind his house like a wounded animal looking for a dank hole in which to hide. Every thought that I'd ever tried to push away to the back of my mind danced now in wild delirium before my short-sighted eyes.

My mother's dying screams, Fred's smiling face, Sirius' warm embrace, Lupin's encouraging words, a toothpick sent to me as a birthday gift, and the sound of my own voice asking Cedric Diggory to take hold of the Goblet of Fire along with me. It was the happy thoughts that stabbed at my demented, grief stricken mind most painfully – the happy memories of people who were no longer there for me.

I don't know how long it was that I stumbled around those dark woods, sick with pain, overcome by a grief to intense for me to bear. And then, when I tripped over a twisted root on the forest floor, I felt someone grab hold of my arm to stop me from falling.

Snape. Had he been following me around all this time? Fortunately, my actions had not been as strange and demented as my thoughts. All he would have seen was a boy walking somewhat aimlessly around a forest, broom in hand.

"Harry…" he said.

"Ah, Professor," I said. "I'm looking for my glasses. I seem to have dropped them somewhere in the wood."

x

x

x

x

He was no fool, but he went along with it. We wandered around the wood in silence, looking for the glasses that were in my pocket. Finally, he suggested that we went back to his home. I could spend the night there, he said, and go back to the Weasleys' in the morning.

I accepted his offer. I had to. I doubted whether I'd manage to get home all right in the state I was in. And as I followed him back to his home, a new thought entered my head…

It was Snape who was responsible for my parents' death. It was he who had betrayed them to Voldemort, by telling him of the prophecy. It was because of the hook-nosed git in front of me that… every rotten thing that had happened to me had taken place. I followed him in silence, mentally ranting, raving, cursing, swearing, and threatening revenge.

The sight of the bedroom he showed me to calmed me down somewhat. It was warm, comfortable and lined with books. Not at all in keeping with his personality, I thought. This bedroom should have been a dark dungeon, decorated with pictures of dementors and inferi.

"Make yourself comfortable," he said kindly, and left the room, soon to reappear with a bundle of clothes. "D'you need something to change into," he asked.

I was about to decline his offer, as my father had once shown me the man's underwear. But the clothes I was in were wet and cold and I noticed that the nightclothes he was holding looked clean and comfortable.

"Thank you," I said, accepting them.

Some minutes later, I was in Professor Snape's clothes. I looked somewhat nervously into the mirror, half expecting to see a younger replica of Snape sneering back at me. I was relieved to see only what I usually saw.

Could something as simple as a comfortable suit of pyjamas be the antidote to extreme mental trauma? I felt better already. But this was weird. The good feeling that Snape's housekeeping gave me confused me to distraction. I had hated him for years. But now I found that I loved his home. I loved his cooking. I even loved the fresh smell of the nightshirt I was wearing. How unfortunate it was that I hated the man himself.

What would my father or Sirius think if they knew that I was in Snape's house, wearing his clothes and spending the night in his bedroom? They would have felt nothing but acute nausea. Was my presence here an act of disloyalty to them? Or was it an act of loyalty to my mother? Or was it an expression of goodwill to Snape himself, for all he had done for me?

I paced the room, restless, irritable and confused, when the cause of all my confusion suddenly looked in on me again. I resisted the temptation to give him a rude glare, and pretended to examine his bookcase. The shelf I happened to look at was groaning with books on laundry. Laundry? Was he mad? A look of sneering disbelief spread over my face, which I hastily converted into a look of polite interest.

He noticed both looks, and half smiled.

"You're interested, Professor, in this…er…art?" My curiosity had got the better of me.

"The art of laundry? Yes." That faint smile continued to lurk in the recesses of his dark eyes. "It was your father, Potter, who first sparked my interest in it."

I digested this piece of information. My nightshirt was soft and warm and smelt like a pine forest on a summer evening. The art of laundry. He certainly had perfected it. But what had my father to do with it?

Then, suddenly, it hit me. And perhaps it was the blood of James Potter running in my veins that gave me the sudden, unforgivable urge to sweep Professor Snape into the air upside down, and check the present condition of a particular article of his clothing.

"Don't even think about it," he said.

I started guiltily. "How is it," I asked, "that you read my dirtiest thoughts, and still address me with such courtesy?"

"And how is it," he asked, "that you have examined an entire jar full of the muck that seethes within my mind, and feel no nausea at the end of it?"

He stared out of the window, and I closely examined his personal library. In addition to the books on laundry, there were also books on cooking and baby care – all written by someone named Matilda Blott.

"Why don't you try to get some sleep," he asked, after the silence had become oppressive.

I shrugged. "Don't mind me - I haven't slept properly for weeks and weeks…"

"The worst is over, Harry," he said quietly. "Everything will start to get better now."

But he didn't know. Everything was starting to get worse. All these years, I had been planning, fighting, and perfecting my wizarding skills, doing something all the time. But now, I had nothing to do, and all the time in the world to think. Think of my mother, father, Sirius, Fred…

"Have you ever felt a total, complete failure,' I asked him. Yes, I was a failure. I had failed to save so many lives…

"Yes I have," he answered. "For most of my life."

For most of his life? Not all of it?

"And when did you not feel a failure," I asked, a hint of sarcasm in my voice.

He ignored my insolence, and answered my question.

"When I was a Death Eater," he answered. "No – don't look at me like that, Harry. I'm only being honest with you." He sighed. "Sometimes, Harry, right feels so wrong and wrong feels so right."

"But…" I began angrily.

"That was the only time I ever felt powerful and successful," he said. "That was the only time I was surrounded with friends, felt part of a group. It was the so-called good people who always made me feel a failure…"

There was no resentment in his voice. That was just the way it was.

"Why did you give it up, then," I asked. "If it felt so good…" There was no mistaking the rudeness in my tone now.

"After your parents…" He couldn't bring himself to say it. After my parents had died. "Harry, for those few years of feeling good, I have paid a terrible price."

"But I'm the one who lost my parents," I said.

He looked at me. "When you joined Hogwarts," he said, "your presence there reminded me every day of what I had done to you. And that's why… that's why I was so intolerably offensive to you all the time. It was nothing but guilt, Harry…"

"I needed no reminders from anyone," I remarked. "It's not something you easily forget, your parents' death…"

What cruel pleasure it gave me to make a Death Eater cry. He tried to hide it, turning to the window again, and not letting me see his face.

I put my coat on over my pyjamas, ran downstairs, pulled on my shoes and grabbed my broom. I violently slammed the door shut, vaulted onto my broom and flew up into the night.


	5. Chapter 5

x

**GREASE**

x

**Chapter 5**

x

I slammed the door, jumped onto my broom and circled Snape's house at great speed a couple of times, mentally hurling abuse at its occupant. But something prevented me from leaving. My circling gradually slowed down, and my Firebolt finally descended into his backyard.

There was no sign of life in the house. An unidentified bird of prey surveyed me superciliously from the bare branches of a dead tree. Its beak reminded me of Snape's large hook-nose, but there the resemblance ended. It was a beautiful bird, with dark, glossy plumage, golden at the neck. Its tail feathers had white tips that glowed in the moonlight.

x

x

"Hello," I said.

I saw nothing peculiar in talking to a bird. Hedwig had been my constant companion for many years, and he'd known things about me that no-one else knew. Not even Ron and Hermione. I had never replaced Hedwig, for I could allow no other owl to take his place. The cage in my room was still empty.

The vulture or whatever it was observed me in silence. Was he disappointed that I was showing signs of life, and therefore could not be consumed for dinner?

"I'm hungry too," I said. "With all that talking we did, Severus and I forgot to have dinner."

The eagle, falcon, or whatever it was flew down and perched on the wall. He seemed to be listening to me.

"What's your name," I asked. He made no answer.

"I'll call you 'Aquila,'" I said, "Because of your aquiline nose. Not that I know what the word aquiline means. Let's just assume that it means 'beaky.'"

He didn't appear to object to his new name – his silence gave consent.

x

x

"Well, Aquila," I said, "I told him a couple of things that were on my mind – things that have been on my mind for years... but I don't know. Maybe I shouldn't have. And now I feel guilty. Don't ask me why. You see, Aquila, we humans have a strict code of conduct that we're expected to observe at all times. A teacher may be a complete swine, but you still have to treat him with respect. A man might be instrumental in having your parents murdered, but you must never raise your voice at him. You must always be civil, always polite. You must..."

I stopped, because the enormous bird had startled me by perching on the backrest of the rickety garden bench that I was occupying. Perhaps that was his way of expressing sympathy. Or perhaps the bench back had simply looked like a good perch to him.

I put my hand up and experimentally ran my fingers over his beautiful golden feathers, half expecting his razor-sharp beak to take a large chunk out of my hand. But surprisingly, nothing of the sort happened.

"Tell me," I asked, "would you consider delivering a letter or two for me occasionally? I've never had another owl since I lost Hedwig. And I don't want one."

Aquila didn't say he would. But he didn't say he wouldn't, either. I was unashamedly petting and stroking him now, as he wasn't objecting to it. One couldn't say that Aquila seemed to enjoy being petted, but he put up with it, a sardonic look on his face.

"I wouldn't insult a handsome fellow like you by putting you in a cage," I said. "But perhaps you could consider setting up an eyrie near the Weasley residence. That's where I live now. I don't share Ron's room any more. Hermione's there all the time, you know. I have a nice cosy little room in the attic, up at the top of the house. Where the Ghoul used to live. You could visit me there every day – you could pick up my mail, have a chat and then fly off to deliver it. I don't want another cute, cuddly little owl, you see. A supercilious eagle like you might be all right, but not another owl. Never another owl. There is no owl like Hedwig..."

x

x

Saline fluids of various descriptions started to ooze out of my eyes and nose. There I was, crying in Snape's back garden, with a bird of prey for company. It was because of all the thinking I'd been doing – thinking of my mother, thinking of my father... and then Hedwig...

"Sometimes I wish I couldn't think, Aquila. As the old bat said, the mind is a many layered thing... Sirius once told me that he'd only managed to survive Azkaban by turning into a simpler creature, with a simpler mind...

...but you don't know who Sirius is, do you, Aquila? Or rather, you don't know who he was... May I talk to you about Sirius, Aquila?"

Aquila didn't answer. He was the ideal companion for this very reason. He did have a bit of a sneer, but didn't argue with you or worse, try to be kind to you. He didn't hurl sarcastic remarks at you. He was a good listener who listened in silence.

"I knew Sirius only for a short while. A very short while. And for that short time it was like..."

I couldn't speak for a moment.

x

x

"... imagine for a moment that you've been living on a remote northern island in the middle of an icy sea, and it's been dark for months and months. You haven't seen the sun in ages, and it's been raining. Then suddenly, in the middle of a terrible thunderstorm, the rain stops. All is silent. And then you see the tip of the sun appear over the horizon – a thin sliver of sun. And you imagine it's going to rise. You think of all the beautiful sunny days ahead. But minutes later, the sun is gone. And something tells you it won't come back tomorrow. Because the sun is dead. And that little glimpse you caught of it makes you grieve its death all the more.

"Sometimes, Aquila, I wish I'd never met Sirius. Until I knew him, I never knew what it was like to have an adult care for me. Not as a friend or a teacher, but as a parent. Sirius was the closest thing I ever had to a father. I was going to move in with him. My life was about to change, and then...

...and then an old bat with a beak like yours made a sneering remark to him – accusing him of sitting around, and not doing anything useful. That remark worked on his mind. And he recklessly came out of hiding, and... goodbye, Sirius."

x

x

An enormous pair of wings spread out behind me. Aquila's wingspan must have been some six feet wide. I turned around uneasily. Had he finally had enough and decided to pin down his prey with his cruel claws, and kill him for dinner?

Fortunately not. He flew away.

"Where are your manners, Aquila," I gulped. "When someone pours out their heart and soul to you, you shouldn't just walk out on them as if you don't care..."

This was what happened if you chose to confide in a less than human creature. They obviously had their limitations. But Hedwig would never have done that. Hedwig would never have walked out on me when I was miserable...

x

x

x

x

Some minutes later, a movement inside Snape's house caught my eye. I saw a strange light flicker in one of the rooms and then go out. Then it flickered again, brighter, and brighter still... and then I saw the flames, and black smoke.

"Fire!" I shouted, and taking up my wand, I ran towards the house.

"Aquila! Fly for help!" I shouted into the darkness. But there was no sign of him. He appeared to have vanished into thin air. "You'll never be any good as a messenger owl," I shouted out to the backyard, as I ran inside. "Or vulture or whatever you are..."

The fire appeared to be in Snape's study. I flung the doors open and burst into it. The air was thick with floating books. And Severus Snape stood there in the middle of the room, calmly and methodically setting them on fire.

x

x

"What d'you think you're doing," I shouted, opening the window, in the vague hope that the breeze would put the little floating fires out. A wild wind sprang into the room, blowing the books towards the enormous bookcases that lined the walls. I watched in horrified fascination as the bookcases caught fire and a huge sheet of flame roared up towards the ceiling.

"Thank you," said Professor Snape. "You saved me the trouble of burning them individually, Potter."

He wasn't being ironic. He actually seemed grateful. But there was a mad light in his eyes.

"Your house is on fire!" I howled. "Aren't you going to do anything about it? _Aguamenti!"_

The fire crackled on merrily, unaffected by the thin stream of water that issued from the tip of my wand, as ineffectual as Uncle Vernon's garden hosepipe.

_"Accio_ bucket," I shouted. Snape presumably had one somewhere in the house. To my relief a wooden bucket appeared. I filled it with water from my wand, and when it was full, hurled the water at the flames. They hissed, but didn't go out.

To make matters worse, the log fire in the fireplace suddenly began to blaze brighter and brighter. It turned emerald green, and a familiar figure with flaming red hair and only one ear stepped out into the room.

x

x

"So you're experimenting with indoor fireworks?" he asked, casting an appreciative glance around the flaming room. "Mother sent me to check if you were all right, Harry, as you hadn't come home yet," he said, turning to me.

"George!" I yelled. "It's a fire! This room's on fire!"

The gravity of the situation got through to George when he saw the look on my face.

He sprang into action. Pointing his wand at the ceiling, he roared, _"Abluvium Inundatio!"_ A deluge of water rained down from the ceiling, drenching Snape, drenching me, drenching George, and putting out the fire.

"You need to know spells like that if you manufacture indoor fireworks on a large scale," grinned George. I gave him a warning look, gesturing towards the angry, wet, spluttering Snape.

x

x

Snape's quiescent mad phase appeared to have given way to a more dangerous manic mad phase. He advanced on us menacingly, his face twisted with anger, and with what appeared to be tears pouring down his sallow cheeks. Or it might have been the residue of George's deluge dripping down from his hair. It might even have been sweat. Whatever it was, his face looked even more unpleasant wet than it looked when it was dry.

Perhaps he realised how awful he looked, for he brushed away the wetness from his face, turned ferociously towards George, and clapped his large, wet hands over George's ears, or rather, his ear and his ear-hole.

"Excreta of a Hungarian Horntail!" he roared, putting his angry face close to George's startled visage.

"Don't mention it," said George. "You're most welcome."

"Illegitimate son of a cross-eyed basilisk!" howled Snape, still holding George's head in an iron grip.

"No, no, you are too kind," said George. "I really didn't do much. It was no trouble at all, saving your house from being burned down..."

This was outrageous, I thought. Snape owed George an abject apology at the very least, for blasting his ear off with the sectumsempra spell. But there he was, blasting George with wave upon wave of colourful invective, for no apparent reason.

George, who would normally come back at Snape with a stream of his own colourful invective, was too startled to say much. I could see that he was torn between bewilderment and admiration. Bewilderment regarding the reason for Snape's attack, and admiration for Snape's inventive use of language.

x

x

As George had done nothing so far by way of retaliation, I felt that I ought to step in.

_"Expelliarmus!"_ I bellowed, raising my wand. Nothing happened, for Professor Snape was not using a wand. Frustrated and feeling like a fool, I rushed at Snape with the idea of rearranging the topography of his face with the use of my fist. But George's deluge had flooded the room, and I slipped and crashed into the pile of charred books on the floor.

Although I hadn't managed to separate them by force, I had caused enough of a diversion to distract Snape for a moment. He let go his hold of George's head. George, regaining his presence of mind, muttered an incantation that transported an entire crate of indoor fireworks from his joke shop to Snape's study.

_"Incendio!"_ I cried. Nothing happened.

"They're No-Heat, Wet-Start," said George, picking up the crate and emptying the fireworks onto the sodden floor. They burst into action as soon as they hit the water.

x

x

George and I ran out of the house in a hurry, our ears ringing with crashes, bangs, whirrs and booms. We stopped at a safe distance and turned back to enjoy the firework display.

The house was silent. "He seems to have figured out a way to put them out," said George. "What a pity."

He turned to me. "What was that all about, anyway?"

I shrugged. "He's mad," I said. "There's no logical explanation for anything he does."

George was unconvinced. "But Harry, you told me yourself, after camping for weeks in the pensieve, that every odd thing he'd done had a logical reason behind it."

"Well, if there was a reason for today's outburst, I haven't a clue what it was," I said. "Let's go home, George."

x

x

x


	6. Chapter 6

x

**GREASE**

x

**Chapter 6**

x

George and I disapparated together and surfaced in Mrs. Weasley's kitchen.

x

"Mother, I'm back," said George.

Mrs. Weasley stared at him for a long moment, then flung her arms around him and burst into tears.

"Whoa there, woman," said the startled George. "I'm glad that you're happy to see me, but I haven't been away for so very long, you know…"

"It isn't that, George," she gasped through her tears. "It's your ear. Your ear has grown back!"

There was dead silence in the kitchen. Everyone in the room – Ron, Hermione, Ginny, Mr. Weasley and I turned to look at George.

George put his hand up to the side of his head and felt something there that hadn't been there a couple of hours before. His long fingers began to explore every nook, cranny and convolution of his newly re-grown appendage. Mr. Weasley gently prised George's hand away from it.

"Be gentle with it, son… don't manhandle it like that. We don't want to lose it again."

But the minute his father let go of George's hand, it went right back to his ear again, touching it, feeling it, caressing it. "But how," he asked, "how did it grow back?"

"What d'you think, Hermione," asked Ron. "Could be that potion you were telling us about the other day?"

"But that's a very difficult potion to make," said Hermione.

"Snape, however offensive he might be, is good at potion making," I remarked.

"But that one takes weeks to take effect," said Hermione. "It's a growth potion. To re-grow the severed appendage, you need to cut off a tiny piece from the other one, steep it in the potion, give it time to grow to its full size and then reattach it with a…"

"Eurgh!" said Ron putting a protective hand over George's unaffected ear.

"I know," said Hermione, "it's a rather primitive method, but… wait a minute! I think I know what must have happened!" she exclaimed. We all turned and looked at her expectantly.

"Told you Hermione would know," said Ron, now caressing Hermione's ear. Hermione gave him an adoring look, and went on.

"There's another way," she said. "George, it said in the book that there's another way – through remorse…"

"Remorse?" said George. "He was shouting abuse at me, Snape was."

Hermione looked puzzled. "It said in the book that many Dark Magic spells that cause bodily harm can be reversed by tears of remorse…"

"You mean, like phoenix tears are the antidote to basilisk poison?" I asked, interested despite myself.

"Yes, it's like that," said Hermione. "But it's more to do with the mind, though. If the person who cast the spell feels true remorse, he can reverse it by letting his tears touch the wound. D'you remember Harry, we once read that even a horcrux can be unmade through remorse…"

"How touching," I snorted. This kind of talk made me uncomfortable.

Mrs. Weasley looked at George. "Did Professor Snape apologise to you, dear?"

"Far from it!" I burst out. "He attacked George, he insulted him, and he showed no…"

George silenced me with a thoughtful look. "Maybe he was trying to help me after all, Harry. Without making it too obvious. Didn't you notice that he wiped his face with his hands before slapping them all over my ears? His hands were as cold and clammy as dead fish…"

"He was sweating because of the fire," I said.

Mr. Weasley put a hand on my shoulder. "Remorse is a powerful thing, Harry," he said mildly.

"Yes it is," said Hermione. "The book even said that you can gauge the depth of the person's remorse by how fast the wound heals…"

Ron chuckled. Hermione muttered an incantation and produced a fat book. She flipped the pages until she found the one she wanted and thrust it under Ron's nose. Ron perused the relevant page, and then grinned at me. "It says here that if he's not very remorseful, it can take up to a week to heal, and if he's truly remorseful, the wound can even heal in a day…" Ron tried to look serious for Hermione's benefit, but there was no mistaking the laughter in his eyes.

'So where does Professor Snape stand," asked Mr. Weasley, with interest.

It was George who answered him. "We set off the fireworks and ran out of the house together. Then we disapparated back here… it couldn't have taken longer than twenty minutes, and my ear grew back in that time." George looked at Ron and I. "You can laugh all you like," he said. "But my ear has grown back. And it's grown back in twenty minutes."

"Hail to thee St. Severus," I said. "Pity he can't grow my parents back, too, with tears of remorse." I felt Ginny squeeze my hand as I stomped irritably out of the room.

x

x

x

x

I peeled off Snape's pyjamas, and pulled on my own. I got into bed, drew up the covers, and stared shortsightedly out of the window at the black sky. If there were stars in the sky, I couldn't see them.

I turned away from the window and stared at the fire. Then I blinked at the clock, trying to figure out what time it was. I felt so restless and irritable that I knew this was going to be another wakeful night. Hearing footsteps outside the door, I hurriedly closed my eyes and pretended to be asleep.

Someone walked softly into my room. Was it Ginny? I raised my eyelids ever so slightly to see who it was. It wasn't Ginny. This person was far too plump to be Ginny. But her presence was equally welcome. If Sirius was the closest thing to a father that I'd ever known, this person was closest to a mother. It was Mrs. Weasley.

She gently smoothed my hair back from my forehead, and then arranged the pillow more comfortably under my head. "Had you been thinking of your mother and father, Harry," she whispered, softly.

I didn't want to answer her question. But I wanted to talk to her. "Who are you?" I whispered, in a groggy, drowsy tone of voice.

Her answer was one that I did not expect.

x

"I am the bird that knocks at your window in the morning," she whispered,  
"…and your companion, whom you cannot know,  
the blossoms that light up for the blind.

"I am the glacier's crest above the forests, the dazzling one  
the voice of the wind  
the thought that suddenly comes over you at midday  
and fills you with a singular happiness.

"I am one you have loved long ago.  
I walk alongside you by day and look intently at you  
and put my hand on your heart  
but you don't know it.

"I am your third arm and your second  
shadow, the white one,  
whom you don't have the heart for  
and who cannot ever forget you."

x

My eyes opened wide. I smiled up at her. "That's a beautiful poem," I said. "Did you write it yourself?"

"No, Harry," she said. "It's by one of my favourite writers." She smiled. "Sometimes, very rarely, you come across authors who seem to think like you, and the words they write express your very own thoughts."

I nodded, eagerly, waiting for her to go on.

"There is a special language that parents speak to the children they love, and somehow, this author captures it exactly. In between her spells, recipes and advice, you'll often come across a little gem like this, which expresses perfectly how you feel about your children…"

The special language that parents and children speak to one another. This was a language that I hadn't known for many years, growing up with the Dursleys. But I was learning it now. For the first time in my life I somewhat hesitantly decided to try to speak it. I put my arms around Mrs. Weasley and gave her a small peck on the cheek.

She smiled, and ruffled my hair, as if I'd just done the most normal thing in the world. Perhaps it was normal in her world, but it wasn't normal in mine. But maybe it would one day become normal to me too.

"Good night, Harry" she said.

"G'night," I said. "What's that writer's name?"

"Matilda Blott," she answered.

"I've heard that name before," I muttered drowsily. "Can't think where…"

Before she could leave the room or close the door, I had drifted off to sleep.

x

x

x

x

_The poem from which Mrs. Weasley quotes is "Guardian Angel" by Norwegian poet Rolf Jacobsen. Translated to English by Roger Greenwald._


	7. Chapter 7

x

**GREASE**

x

**Chapter 7**

x

The next day, George sent an owl to his joke shop to inform them that he wouldn't be in for the day. And then he asked me if I'd like to go with him to visit Snape, but I refused to go.

So George set off to Snape's house, followed, unbeknownst to him, by a short-sighted friend of his, swathed in an invisibility cloak.

x

x

In no time at all, we were at Snape's door, and George was ringing the bell.

"Who is it," asked a familiar morose voice.

"It's George Weasley, Professor," answered George.

The door opened, and an expressionless face looked out at George.

"Professor... I came to say that I now understand what you did for me yesterday," said George. "I came to thank you."

Snape looked at George – slim, tall and red-headed, his usual infectious smile replaced with a look of sincere gratitude.

And Snape suddenly smiled. "It was perhaps not the best way to do it, but that was too good an opportunity to miss, and I had to think of something in a hurry... why don't you come in, Weasley?"

"George," said George, following Snape inside. I noiselessly slunk into the house, too.

Snape nodded. "I'm sure you'd recoil at the thought of calling me Severus, but you're welcome to do so," he said.

George grinned. "Thank you, Severus," he said. "May I make it Sev for short? It sounds less severe."

"By all means," said Snape. "My full name might tend to remind you of the fact that I once severed your ear..."

George's grin widened under his thatch of flaming hair.

"...judging from what I've read, your ear will probably take about a week to grow back," continued Snape, "so you must let me know, George, if it has grown back within that time, or we might need to apply a bit more of the... er... antidote to the area."

"Professor," interrupted George, but Snape ignored him and continued. "...and if a further application of the antidote is required, be sure to bring Potter along with you..."

"Professor – Severus –" said George, "I don't need to come back after a week. I can show it to you right now! Look..." He lifted up his hair to show Snape the perfectly formed ear under it.

x

x

Snape was staggered.

"Are you sure you're showing me the right one," he asked.

George lifted up a handful of hair on the other side of his head. "I defy you to tell me which one was severed," he said, with a smile. And then, more seriously, "It took less than twenty minutes to grow back, Professor."

I saw a look on George's face that I'd never seen before. "Have you read what the books say, Professor? About how long the cure takes in different cases, to take effect?"

"Er... no," said an embarrassed Snape.

"Then, why don't you read about it now," said George, producing Hermione's book and thrusting it under Snape's beaky nose.

Snape pushed it away. "That's quite all right, George. Now that it's grown back, we needn't go into what exactly happened," he said, hurriedly.

"But I would like to go into it," said George. "This book says that in cases of the most sincere remorse, the lost appendage will grow back in a day. And my ear grew back in twenty minutes."

"The author obviously did not know his subject too well," observed Snape.

"I think he did," said George. "I think he knew his subject very well... Professor, I... how do I say this? If you felt so badly about it, it must have been hell for you. I'm so sorry..."

Snape shrugged. "There are worse things I've done, that I regret even more deeply. But I have only myself to blame, haven't I?"

"Harry told me that you aimed the sectumsempra spell at a Death Eater, and it hit me by mistake..."

Snape nodded. "That is correct. That is what happened."

"So if it was a mistake," said George, "there was no need for you to blame yourself so severely."

Snape smiled. "You never miss an opportunity to use that word, do you George?"

"It wasn't a joke, this time," said George, impatiently. "It just sort of slipped out... I don't understand it, Severus. If you're walking around feeling so much guilt all the time, how do you live?"

"Well," said Snape, "if I walked around feeling no guilt at all, then I'd have no right to live..."

"I understand," said George, pacing the room, his hands in his pockets. "You're right, Professor - you're absolutely right. If you do something terrible, and then walk away totally unconcerned, then you're a bloody Death Eater..." He caught sight of the Dark Mark that was still on Snape's arm. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"I cannot deny what I used to be," said Snape. "And much of the time, I cannot even make amends for the things I've done. So I walk around, as you put it, feeling like a piece of filth..."

"There's nothing wrong with that," said George. "In fact, it ... if I may take the liberty of saying so, it shows what a fine person you are, Professor. I... just wish it didn't hurt you so much, that's all."

Snape looked into George's blue eyes. "Thank you," he said, quietly.

"Thank_you,"_said George.

They looked at each other in some embarrassment.

x

x

"Well, I'd better be going," said George. "I..." he suddenly smiled. "Severus, there's a girl I'm in love with. And before my ear grew back, I used to feel like the hand-me-downs from Bill and Charlie that Fred and I used to wear. You know – seams falling apart, huge rents in the fabric... and I used to think she deserved something better. But now I feel brand new again."

"May I ask who she is," enquired Snape, with a smile.

"Of course," said George. "It's Angelina. Angelina Johnson. She..." he hesitated. "she was going with Fred, actually..."

Snape nodded encouragingly, and George went on.

"I thought it wouldn't be right, I thought it might be disrespectful to Fred's memory if I..."

Snape's black eyes were sympathetic and understanding.

"...but she said that since we both loved Fred, we ought to stick together, and she said that I wasn't replacing Fred, and she sees me as a completely different person and so... I dunno..."

George gave Snape a miserable, helpless look.

"You're not doing anything wrong," said Snape, in a surprisingly gentle tone. "I hope it works out well for both of you."

x

x

"Thank you, Severus. I... I miss Fred so much, it's like a part of myself is gone... but I can't talk to anyone about it. My parents need to be distracted from thinking about Fred, 'cause otherwise they'd be terribly depressed all the time..."

Snape put an arm around George's shoulders, and gently sat him down on the sofa.

"There isn't a single moment that I don't think of him," said George indistinctly, hiding his face in his hands. "But I walk around all the time like I don't bloody care about Fred... I act as if I've forgotten him – erased him from my memory. I walk around with a smile, like life's a huge joke..."

To my horror, George collapsed face down onto Snape's sofa, his slender frame racked with silent, convulsive sobs. And Snape did nothing. He sat beside George, a quiet comforting presence. That was all. "Do something," I wanted to scream to Snape. "Do something to stop those terrible tears..." But I had to remain silent.

George cried and cried as if his whole family had died, for what seemed like hours to me. Snape just sat there in silence, holding George's hand. And oddly enough, that was all George seemed to have wanted from him, for when he finally emerged, he thanked him.

Snape ran a gentle hand over his hair, still saying nothing. George lay face up on the sofa now, pale and puffy eyed, but trying to smile.

"I do something weird every time I come here, don't I? Last time, I almost set fire to your house, and this time, I've drowned your sofa in green slime."

"I've come to expect that sort of thing from you, George Weasley," said Snape, a hint of a smile in his eyes.

x

x

"Do you have a potion that will make me look normal, so I can go home?"

"No, I'm afraid not," said Snape. "However..." he produced a pillow, with a muttered incantation, and placed it under George's head. "There you are," he said. "Now try to sleep and you'll feel better when you wake up."

"I doubt it," said George, his eyes flooding with pain once more. "I've got to go home again now, and strut around once more as if I don't give a damn about Fred..."

He stood up. "Is there somewhere I can wash my face?"

Snape pointed. "Thank you," said George, and disappeared.

When he reappeared, he looked almost normal. "Can you do something to make my eyes less bloodshot," he asked. Snape pointed his wand at George's face and muttered an inaudible incantation. George went to check his reflection in the mirror, and came back with a delighted grin.

"That's incredible! I must learn it from you! Well, the window dressing is done, and I'd best be getting home again."

x

x

"George, wait," said Snape.

George turned back. "I know what you're going to say," he said. "You're going to say that I shouldn't sweep it all under the carpet and hope it'll disappear, because it won't."

"Exactly," said Snape.

"Well Sev, how would my family like it if I just lay on a couch and cried for the next fifteen or twenty years?"

Snape started to speak, but George interrupted him with a cheery "G'bye Severus."

"Weasley, I asked you to wait," said Snape in his sternest, most professorial tone.

"When I'm in the mood for a lecture, Professor, I'll let you know," said George.

"I'm not going to lecture you," said Snape. "I just want to show you something."

His curiosity aroused, George followed Snape up to his study.

x

x

x

x

It was clean and neat now : the charred, burnt books had disappeared, and what was left of Snape's library was once again arranged neatly on his bookshelves. The floor was dry and the carpet had been magically mended.

"You asked how I manage to live, holding so much grief inside me," said Snape. "Well I don't. I talk to hundreds of people about it. I write books."

"You're an author?" exclaimed George.

Snape smiled. "Not any kind of author you'd respect."

'What do you mean?"

"George, you spoke of loving a girl. Well, many years ago, I loved a woman too. But given my physical appearance and my offensive manners, I didn't get very far with her..." George tried to speak, but was silenced with a gesture. "Well later, the lady I loved died, and her husband too, and I was responsible for it. But her son lived. And night after night, I would stay up, racked with guilt, wondering where he was, and whether he was all right... And during the day, I would, like you, strut around as if I didn't give a hoot about what I'd done to him."

George was listening intently, now.

"And then one day, a publisher friend of mine gave me an idea," continued Snape. "A most idiotic idea, but it worked for me. My friend's child was hidden from me, in a secret location. So he suggested that I write to the foster parents who bringing him up. I could write them, he said. I could talk to them about all the things I wanted them to do for my lost boy, and he'd publish it in the form of a book. And maybe, just maybe, they would walk one day into Flourish and Blott's and buy my book and take it home... and then they just might read it and then perhaps they'd do everything I wanted to do for Harry..."

"_Harry?"_

Snape shrugged. "You probably knew who I was talking about, anyway, George. Well, I liked my friend's idea, stupid as it was. It gave me something to do, and helped me stay as sane as possible under the circumstances. And George, that's what I'd like you to do too. Whenever you think of Fred, instead of swallowing it up, why don't you try to do something to express it? Something other than crying on the couch? It might make you feel better." He smiled. "So that was a lecture, after all. I'm sorry."

George nodded, thoughtfully. "I... I'll try to do that. But Professor..." he hesitated. "... if that was the way you felt about Harry, why were you, um, why, er... I'll be honest with you. Why did you treat him like dirt when you finally got to meet him?

x

x

I held my breath. George had a point, there. He was speaking for me, but perhaps he shouldn't have said that after Snape had shown him so much kindness and understanding.

But Snape showed him no rancour. "There's a difference between loving an imaginary person and a real person, George. It took me a while to get used to it. In fact, I'm still getting used to it."

"You mean," said George thoughtfully, "you imagined this beautiful replica of Lily Potter, who was kind and gentle, and loved you a lot... and then there turned up an eleven year old replica of James Potter, with a cheeky, supercilious look, who had lots of friends and didn't need you..."

"For the record, I didn't say that," said Snape, his dark eyes smiling. "But it wasn't just that – it was something else, too. To give you a crude analogy, when I met Harry, it was like a Muggle meeting his favourite film star."

"Huh?" said George.

"Imagine you're a Muggle who has for years been devoted to a particular film star," said Snape. "The Muggle lives, breathes, eats and sleeps, thinking of this person..."

"And then he gets an opportunity to actually meet this star. And he rushes up to her eagerly, holding out an autograph book, and breathes that he's loved her all his life, and she gives him a cold look, and his world is shattered," finished George.

"No," said Snape. "This Muggle has some self-respect. He doesn't want to be made a fool of. So he goes up to the star, spits in her face, and says, 'Who'd want to have anything to do with you!'"

"I suppose it never occurred to the Muggle that the film star might actually have appreciated him?" asked George.

I held my breath again. George was truly speaking for me now.

"I have nothing further to say," said Snape. His dark eyes once again turned blank and expressionless.

x

x

"I'm sorry," said George. "It was wrong of me to pry into your personal affairs... but may I ask you one last question?"

"If you must," said Snape.

"Those books you wrote for Harry – were they the ones you were burning last night?"

"If you must know, yes."

"I won't ask you why," said George. Then he turned on Snape. "Why! Why did you do that?"

A hint of a smile reappeared in Snape's eyes.

"Let's just say that those books had outlived their usefulness."

"Why?"

"I wrote them for the kindly wizard family that in my imagination was caring for Harry. Little did I know that he had been left to the tender mercies of Lily's sister, Petunia. _Petunia!"_He spat out my aunt's name as if it were a filthy expletive. "I've known her since we were children. If Dumbledore had asked me, I could have told him what she was like!"

"I asked you a question," said George, "which you haven't answered. People don't set fire to things because they've outlived their usefulness... what happened yesterday, Severus? Was he rude to you? And if he was rude to you, was that because you were rude to him?"

"If you've murdered someone's parents, that would give them a lifelong right to be rude to you, wouldn't it?" asked Snape. "And now if you'll excuse me..."

"I was under the impression that Voldemort killed Harry's parents," said George. "But of course, I'm not very well informed on these matters..."

"I told the Dark Lord of the prophecy, George."

"But you didn't know at the time that it had anything to do with Harry's parents," said George. I nodded in agreement, although I was invisible.

"I should not have exposed _anyone_to the attack of the Dark Lord. Whether it was James or Lily or anyone else. I should never have become a Death Eater, George."

"Show me one person you know who's never made a mistake in his life," said George. I felt a sudden urge to stand up and cheer for George, or even hug him.

"But he must know," George was saying. "I'm sure that if he knew how you felt about it now, it would make a difference to him." I nodded eagerly, under my cloak.

"I don't see why," said Snape. "He might not care at all."

"But how could he not?" asked George.

'That's the way the world is, George. If you care for a person, that doesn't necessarily mean that they'll care for you, too. Harry is very much his mother's son." He sighed.

"But having said that, I have to say that it's a miracle, a blessing, that we still have him with us. When I think back to the day I met Voldemort for the last time, the day Voldemort tried to kill me, I remember how hopeless I felt...

Voldemort would not let me go out to see Harry, although I repeatedly asked him to permit me to go... and then, when he told me that he'd taken the Elder Wand from Dumbledore, I thought that all was lost..."

Snape's face was as white as it had been when Voldemort told him about the Elder Wand, but George brought him back to the present by gently touching his arm.

"You think that it's a blessing to have Harry around, even though he's so offensive to you?" asked George, quietly.

Snape shrugged. "Harry is Harry. He is no longer a child of my imagination. We have to accept him as he is. And if he decides to have nothing further to do with me, I have to accept that, too."

George was silent for a moment. Then... "May I ask you one last question?" he asked.

Snape smiled. "If you must."

x

x

"Those books you wrote for Harry – did you write them under your own name?"

"Of course not," said Snape. "D'you think I'd put out such disgustingly sentimental drivel under my own name?" He snorted distastefully.

"What was your pen name, then," asked George.

Snape pulled a book out of his bookcase, and tossed it to George, who caught it gracefully, with the skill of a Beater. Looking at it, George's eyes widened in surprise.

"You're Matilda Blott?"

"Yes, and if you tell anyone about that, you'll lose both your ears, and I won't help you grow either of them back again."

"But my mother's your greatest fan!" said George. "She owns every one of your books! She can't make dinner without your help! She can't do the laundry without you! She can't clean the oven without you..."

Snape tried not to smile. "You mother is a capable lady, who brought up five boys long before I ever started writing. I'm sure she wouldn't need any help from a bachelor and a Death Eater to boot..."

"Well, I did exaggerate a bit," admitted George. "But she does love your books. You write the kind of sentimental stuff that appeals to elderly women like her..."

"Do not speak of your mother like that," said Snape, defending his fan.

"Look who's talking," said George. "Yesterday, you called her a cross-eyed basilisk."

"I...what?" exclaimed Snape, startled.

"You called me the illegitimate son of a cross-eyed basilisk, and I have to tell you that I've never come across a better description of my mother than that...but Severus!" he said excitedly, "I'm a fan of yours, too. And so was Fred. Your recipes were the starting point for every one of our products – the Ton-Tongue Toffees, the Skiving Snackboxes, the Nosebleed Nougat, the Puking Pastilles..."

"Skiving Snackboxes? Puking Pastilles?" Snape's face was a study.

"Yes!" said George, "Fred and I even wrote to you once, asking your help to develop new products."

"I'm afraid I don't answer Matilda Blott's fan mail," said Snape, as if she were a different person. "Archie and Gwillim do that."

"But don't you know what a huge number of fans you've got? Aren't you aware of how popular your books are?"

"It was no use, George. While I was writing those books for the kindly witch and wizard who in my imagination were bringing him up, Harry was in actual fact being raised by an offensive Muggle woman of questionable literacy."

"I'm sure Harry's Aunt Petunia can read," said George.

"The next time you see Harry, ask him if he's ever seen her with anything more challenging than a Muggle magazine," snapped Snape.

"You really hate her, don't you?" grinned George. "Well, I think you've probably had enough of me, too. And it's about time I reported back to the cross-eyed basilisk anyway."

He shook hands with Snape, giving him a smile very unlike his usual smile. "Thank you again, Professor. I cannot thank you enough for all that you've done for me..."

At this point, I noiselessly made my way down the stairs, and slunk out of Snape's front door.

x

x

x

x

I disapparated to a field on the hill behind the Burrow, and took off my invisibility cloak.

I lay there on the grass for a long while, enjoying the crisp air, the brilliant sunshine and cloudless sky. I fell asleep in the drowsy heat, and was awakened by the swish of a magnificent pair of wings.

I looked up to see a bird with a curved beak perched on the tree above me.

"Aquila?"

I didn't know if he was the same bird I'd seen in Snape's backyard. Most birds of prey had hook-noses like Snape's, and appropriately so. But this one looked beautiful, his russet feathers catching the sunlight.

"Hello," I said. He did not answer.

"I've just been to the old bat's house and..."

I was silent for a long while, gathering my thoughts, and listening to the faint drone of a distant bee.

"I was eavesdropping on George, in Snape's house, and... I heard so many things."

I looked up at the bird. He was probably an eagle. A golden eagle, perhaps. The band of lighter feathers on his neck shone like burnished gold.

"You know," I continued, "When I went round to Snape's place, all I'd been able to manage was 'Good afternoon, Professor,' and 'How are you, Professor,' and then, after the ice broke a bit, 'You killed my parents, Professor.'"

I sighed.

"But when George spoke to him, it was so different. He talked to Snape about his ear, and about Fred and Angelina, and about me, and he got to know quite a bit about the old bat's thoughts, too... I wish I could talk to people, Aquila. I wish I could talk to people about things that are important to me, things that mean a lot to me. But I can't..."

I looked up at him.

"Why do you follow me around, anyway? Do I look like a corpse to you?"

I got up and dusted myself off. "Well, I'd better be off now. G'bye!"

x

x

I walked down the hill to the overgrown garden. As I pushed open the creaky gate, George apparated beside me. He smiled.

"Hello, Harry."

"Hello, George."

We stood there in the sunshine for a moment – George Weasley and the person who was responsible for his twin brother's death.

"Are you all right, George?" I asked. For that glimpse of his grief that I'd caught at Snape's house had shaken me.

George looked surprised, and grinned his usual infectious grin. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said. 'Why?"

"Just asked," I said, vaguely. He chuckled, and went inside.

I was somewhat disappointed with his answer.

But what had I expected him to say? I'd never heard him even mention Fred to anyone until now. He'd never once spoken a word about him to his parents, his brothers, to Ginny, or to me. And after keeping his own counsel all this time, he had finally chosen to talk to Professor Snape.

x

What did Snape have to offer him that the rest of us didn't have?

Who knew.


	8. Chapter 8

x

**GREASE**

x

**Chapter 8**

x

Ever since George had visited Professor Snape, I often found myself thinking about him. I thought about Snape a lot, but avoided him. If I went round to his place, I suspected that my second visit would be very much like my first – in a word, pointless.

Then one day, I remembered my invisibility cloak – it would conveniently allow me to observe the object of my interest without having to pretend to converse with him. And so I found myself at Snape's house once again, hidden inside the cloak, and not very sure what exactly I was doing there.

I found him in the garden, looking at a cat on the wall. He seemed almost in silent conversation with it. The cat had spectacle marks around its eyes – and all of a sudden it transformed itself into a woman in an emerald cloak.

"Professor Snape," she said, "I have come to ask you the same question, once again."

"Professor McGonagall, my answer is still the same. I will never teach at Hogwarts again."

"You were one of Dumbledore's most trusted friends…"

"He trusted me, but you did not."

"You never told me the truth, Severus."

"It was at Dumbledore's request that I told no-one the truth."

"If we had known the truth, we would never have opposed you so strongly, during your time as Headmaster…"

"Minerva, a spy ought not to go about announcing where his loyalties lie to the world at large. And that is what I was. Dumbledore's spy. You erroneously used the word 'friend.'"

Professor McGonagall shot a keen-eyed look at Snape.

"Were you hurt, Severus, by the intensity of the opposition to you? From the students and the staff?"

I had expected Snape to sneer rudely that he couldn't care less about the opinions of the world at large. But he did not.

'I am human," he said.

"Is that why you will not come back?"

"Perhaps."

"Severus, we now know the truth. And it will make a difference."

Snape looked straight into her eyes. "I wish to have nothing further to do with Hogwarts or with any of you."

He put his hands into the pockets of his black cloak, and walked inside.

x

Transforming herself into a cat once more, Professor McGonagall sat on the wall – stern, disapproving and silent.

As I stood there, eavesdropping in silence, Aberforth's words came to my mind. 'I know my brother, Potter,' he'd said. 'He learned secrecy at our mother's knee. Secrets and lies, that's how we grew up, and Albus - he was a natural.'

Why had Dumbledore chosen not to tell Professor McGonagall or myself the truth about Professor Snape? Neither of us would have betrayed his secret. And it would have made life easier for Snape.

Had Dumbledore not been concerned about Snape the person? Had he only been interested in the information he was getting from Snape the spy?

Snape the person had told me that with the Death Eaters, he'd found companionship. But as a member of the Order of the Phoenix, he'd been isolated and alone. He'd had to associate with people like Sirius, whom he utterly disliked, and after Dumbledore's death, he'd been ostracised by the Order that he'd continued to serve loyally in secret.

Dumbledore had asked Snape what he would do for him, in return for protecting the Potters. "Anything," Snape had answered. And this had been Snape's task : to put himself in constant danger as a spy and reap loneliness and mistrust from the Order as a reward…

I felt a cat nuzzling my leg. "Professor?" I whispered. "Professor McGonagall?"

"Whatever are you doing here, Harry?"

"I'm…er…eavesdropping, Professor."

"Yes, I can see that," she said. "Well, whatever your reason is for hiding, I will respect it and not give you away. Are you well, Harry?"

"Yes, thank you. And you, Professor?"

"I'm well," she said. "Do visit me sometime, Harry. I think about you often. In fact, I worry about you."

"I'd love to, Professor." I meant it. Professor McGonagall I really was fond of. It was Snape who was difficult to talk to.

"I'll look forward to that, then." And she was gone.

x

x

x

x

Still hidden under my invisibility cloak, I walked into Snape's house. I found him in his study, ill-temperedly writing something on a piece of parchment. Putting his hand out to dip his quill in his ink-pot, he knocked it over. A huge pool of sepia ink spread over his desk, flowing over a tiny, torn photograph, destroying it completely. It was the photograph of my mother that he had found in Sirius' room._"Tergeo," _snapped Snape, picking it up. The ink disappeared, but the huge brown stain on the picture refused to go away, no matter what Snape tried. He muttered spell after spell, all to no avail. The look on his face made me wonder whether he'd set fire to his books again. But he didn't.

He buried his face in his hands and sat there quietly for a long while. The ink spread towards his elbow, soaked his sleeve, and then flowed to the edge of the desk and started to drip down on his clothes. He did nothing about it.

He swore softly to himself and I saw his hands clench and unclench compulsively. What little I could see of his face was flushed with emotion.

I stood beside him, so close that I was almost touching him, wishing there was something I could do to help, but not daring to reveal myself.

Snape lifted his wand up to his head and pulled out some silver strands of thought. Perhaps he wanted to temporarily take his mind off whatever he'd been thinking. He took thought after thought out of his head and dumped them unceremoniously in a small Pensieve that stood beside his writing desk.

He stood up, now looking more composed, and strode out of the room, slamming the door shut.

A few minutes later, I heard him banging things around in the kitchen.

I looked down at the silver thoughts restlessly milling around within the Pensieve, remembering what had happened the last time I'd dived into a pensieve in Snape's study, without his permission. He had cancelled my Occlumency lessons and broken a jar of cockroaches over my head.

If Hermione had been there with me, she would have cautioned me not to make the same mistake twice. But my curiosity got the better of me. I pulled off my Invisibility Cloak and plunged in.

x

x

x

x

I heard the roar of an excited crowd around the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch. I saw fifteen brooms high up in the air. But my eyes were fixed on one red robed figure alone. The Gryffindor Chaser – James Potter.

'Slytherin in possession,' observed the languid voice of the commentator. "Chaser Morecambe, speeding off towards the goalpost, is unfortunately stopped by Chaser Potter, who has gained the Quaffle with a sprawling, ungainly dive that nonetheless impresses his shrill, excitable admirers, for reasons best known to themselves – Potter stopped by Slytherin Chaser Avery – Slytherin in possession now - Chaser Avery speeds towards the goal, as Potter races to catch up with him – Potter back in possession of the Quaffle – he scrambles awkwardly in the opposite direction, and… this is most unfortunate. I regret to inform you that Gryffindor have scored a goal. By sheer fluke, no doubt…"

Professor McGonagall understandably took exception to the commentary.

"Unbiased commentary, please!" she snapped.

The commentator ignored her and did not apologise.

"…and we will now take a short break, in order to allow Mr Potter to adjust his coiffure and preen himself…"

"Snape! I am warning you…" said Professor McGonagall.

The commentator continued to ignore her. "And they are off again – Slytherin Seeker Black makes an elegant lightning dive – has he spotted the Snitch? YES HE HAS! And he has caught it, too! CONGRATULATIONS, REGULUS BLACK! **SLYTHERIN HAVE WON!**

…And who have we here? It's Gryffindor Seeker Longbottom - he's still seeking. Will some considerate soul please inform him that the game is over…or perhaps we should allow him to carry on seeking – he'll realise it soon enough…"

An angry James Potter descended to the ground, and looked for his best friend. But Sirius was gravely shaking hands with his brother Regulus. Regulus was trying to match Sirius' formal look : trying to hide how thrilled he was that the older brother he secretly admired was actually taking notice of him.

A stray Bludger nearly hit James in the face. James ducked and viciously hit it in the direction of the commentator who had infuriated him to such an extent that he had not been able to concentrate on his game.

"And the arrogant Potter, miffed at being humiliated before his adoring fans, savagely attacks the commentator," reported Severus calmly into the megaphone. "I wouldn't worry if I were you, Potter. I very much doubt that your fans are intelligent enough to understand whether you've won or lost…"

"SNAPE!" bellowed Professor McGonagall in a tone of voice that could no longer be ignored. The commentator coolly stood up, handed her his megaphone and with a smug, self satisfied smile, left his post.

"Not so fast, Snape," said Professor McGonagall. Snape turned to face her, the amused look still on his face. "Mr. Snape, you will no longer be given the opportunity to commentate…you will in future exercise your considerable verbal skills in a more appropriate direction."

"My…what?" It clearly had not occurred to Snape until then, that he possessed any such skill.

"Your formidable verbal skills – use them in a positive manner in future. Do not use them to hurt, offend, demean and belittle others, as you do at present."

"But how could I possibly use them in a positive manner?" Severus was not being insolent. He was genuinely trying to understand what she meant.

"Who knows – if you work to perfect your skills, you may one day become an influential author," said Professor McGonagall.

"Who, me?"

"Yes, you, Mr. Snape – if you boys did not waste your considerable energies on an endless, pointless cycle of provocation and retaliation, you might achieve much…"

And she rushed off to smooth the ruffled feathers of the wounded Gryffindor team, leaving a thoughtful ex-commentator behind her.

x

x

x

x

The scene faded and a thick mist descended around me. When it cleared, I found myself at a place I'd been before - it was as if a book had opened at the very same page at which I'd closed it, waiting for me to read on…

I was once again looking at Snape's worst memory, and I was exactly where I'd been when I'd been angrily yanked out of the Pensieve when I last saw it.

x

"I'm surprised your broomstick can get off the ground with that fat head on it. You make me SICK," said Lily Evans to James Potter.

"Evans," James shouted as she turned on her heel and hurried away, "Hey, EVANS!"

But she didn't look back.

'What is it with her?" said James.

"Reading between the lines, I'd say she thinks you're a bit conceited, mate," said Sirius.

"Right," said James, who looked furious now, "right-"

There was a flash of light and Snape was once again hanging upside-down in the air.

"Who wants to see me take off Snivelly's pants," asked James, looking round at his friends.

Wormtail looked apprehensive, and Lupin, disapproving. But Sirius smiled, as if to say, "Go ahead, mate!"

James pointed his wand at Snape's greying underpants.

"Evans suggested a wash for them, so we'll do that first, shall we?_Scourgify!"_

Pink soap bubbles began to foam around Snape's pants.

"Look! He's wet his pants," exclaimed someone, and James turned around appreciatively.

"Good one, that," he said. "And now…"

He made a flamboyant, showmanlike gesture with his wand, and Snape's pants disappeared.

All of a sudden, no-one was smiling any more. People looked embarrassed and turned away. Others looked shocked and upset. No one there looked appreciative. Except Sirius Black.

Snape's thin face flooded with total, utter humiliation, which intensified when he saw a Professor looking at him. It was Professor McGonagall.

There was a flash of light, and James Potter's spell was broken. Snape crashed to the ground with an agonised yell.

Horrified, Professor McGonagall rushed to him. "My apologies, Mr. Snape. I regret that I was rather disturbed by what I just saw, and therefore did not realise what I was doing."

She helped Snape to his feet and then turned to look at my father. "Mr. Potter, I will speak to you later. Snape : come up to my office at once."

Snape followed her up to her study.

"Did I hurt you, Mr. Snape," she asked.

"No, not at all, Professor," answered Snape, in an exaggeratedly polite tone. As was customary with him, he was hiding his humiliation behind a mask of aggression. "I'm sure it must have been a pleasurable experience for you, Professor, to see your least favourite student being publicly humiliated," he added.

It was not surprising, I thought, that Snape was so unpopular. Here he was, being unnecessarily offensive to a Professor who was treating him kindly.

Professor McGonagall did not reprimand him for his total lack of courtesy.

"On the contrary, Severus, I was shocked by what I just saw," she answered, calmly. "You are an intelligent wizard. How did you allow them to get away with it?"

Snape glared at her. "So the whole thing was my fault, Professor? For not preventing it?"

Professor McGonagall looked at him sternly, over the tops of her rectangular spectacles. "I was not attempting to accuse or belittle you, as you very well know. I am merely trying to understand what happened."

"They took my wand away from me, and there was nothing I could do without it," said Snape.

"Did you say or do anything to provoke Mr. Potter?"

Snape shook his head. "Lily Evans asked Potter what I'd done to him. He said that it was just the fact that I exist."

Professor McGonagall was shocked. "He said that?"

Snape nodded. "Yes, he said that. And now, if you will excuse me, I'd like to leave, Professor."

"You will do nothing of the sort. There are still some questions I would like to ask you. I have not finished with you yet, Mr. Snape."

Snape put a trembling hand up to his forehead. The bitter taste of soap in his mouth, the buzzing in his ears from having been swung upside-down, and the humiliation of it all, combined to conspire against him. He doubled up in agony and painfully threw up all his anger, misery and shame on Professor McGonagall's clean carpet.

"I…I'm sorry," he said, when he was able to speak again. "I tried to leave the room, but you wouldn't let me."

He looked even paler than usual, and seemed unsteady on his feet. There were large damp patches on his robe, where James Potter's laundry detergent had filtered through. His humiliation was total and complete.

Professor McGonagall cleaned up the floor with a quick spell. "Sit down, Severus," she said kindly.

"I – I can't. I'd put wet soap all over your chair."

Professor McGonagall's face was a mixture of concern and exasperation.

"Severus, I do not mind if my chair gets soapy. Sit down at once!"

Snape sat down and hid his face in his hands.

"Would it make you feel better if you went home for a few days," asked Professor McGonagall.

"Oh, that would be lovely," growled Snape's sarcastic voice, from behind his hands. "I never fail to enjoy the sight of my Muggle father abusing my mother. The sight of a man flogging his wife is so soothing, so calming…"

Professor McGonagall looked at him in shock and genuine concern, not knowing how to respond.

"Severus, I… don't know what to say. I am so sorry. Is there no-one you can speak to about your father?"

"So that's my fault, too? Allowing him to get away with it?" snarled Snape.

"No, Severus, of course not. I did not mean…"

Professor McGonagall's voice trailed off. She looked in dismay at the greasy haired boy seated on a soapy chair, now sobbing uncontrollably at the thought of his abusive father.

"I feel so helpless," he said. "…so useless. I thought that things would be different here, in the wizarding world. But this world is as bad as the Muggle world. Wherever I go, people have the freedom to hurt and abuse anyone who just happens to be passing by, and there's nothing I can do about it. Nothing! Absolutely nothing!"

Professor McGonagall stared at him for a few minutes, completely at a loss.

Then an idea seemed to strike her. She transformed herself into a cat.

Leaping up onto Snape's lap, the tabby that was Professor McGonagall licked his tears away. Snape was so startled that his sobbing stopped instantly. He put his hand up to gratefully stroke the cat's back. But remembering that the cat was a Professor, he hastily put it down again.

They sat there for a long while together – the boy and the cat.

Then the cat leapt down onto the floor and turned once again into a Professor. She sat down at her desk again and looked sternly at Snape.

"Will you send James Potter up to my study now."

It was not a request but an order.

Snape hesitated. "I – cannot face him now, Professor…"

He looked as if he would burst into tears again.

"Yes, yes of course," said Professor McGonagall briskly. "Go down to your dormitory, Severus. I will find him myself."

Snape left the room. But he did not go down to the Slytherin common room. He went to the Gryffindor tower instead. There was someone there to whom he wished to apologise.

Standing next to Severus, I too waited anxiously to see my mother. But the memory faded, and I was taken to another time, another place.

x

x

x

x

Professor McGonagall was in class, explaining some intricate, abstruse aspect of Transfiguration to her students. Unbeknownst to her students, her keen eye closely observed a boy at the back of her class. Snape looked, if that were possible, more unkempt than ever. His greasy hair was straggly and uncombed and his quill scratched erratically over the parchment in front of him.

Professor McGonagall began to walk around the classroom, looking at her students' work. Snape did not realise this, and that was why he did not have time to hide what he'd written when, to his horror, he found her standing beside him.

Professor McGonagall looked down and read the words "filthy mudblood" written repeatedly on the parchment, interspersed with scribbles, blots and four-letter words.

"Stay back after class, Mr. Snape, I wish to speak with you," she said. Snape stood up, his face flushed with embarrassment, and nodded mutely. "Sit down, Mr. Snape," she said, and went on to the next desk.

x

After class, when all the other students had filed out, Severus stayed behind.

"Come forward, Mr. Snape," said Professor McGonagall. Snape walked forward and stood before her desk.

"I would reprimand you for using those words, Severus, if I did not have a very good idea of whom you are referring to. Is something wrong at home?"

Snape nodded, miserably.

"What has happened," asked Professor McGonagall.

"My mother is very ill, Professor…"

"Is it because…"

"No, Professor, it's not because of anything my father did. Her illness wasn't serious at first, but because he's insisting on a Muggle hospital and Muggle treatment, she's getting worse and worse… when I last saw her, she was unconscious. She didn't even know I was there. She's a witch, Professor! Muggle remedies are not working for her."

"Perhaps your father could be persuaded to move her to St. Mungo's?"

"If I suggested that," said Severus, "I'd probably end up in a hospital too."

"Which hospital is Eileen in?"

"You know her, Professor?"

"Yes I do, Severus. We were both students here, once. Which hospital is she in?"

"I don't even know the name of the bloody place."

She looked at him sharply. "Language, language…"

"I'm sorry," said Snape. "I'm just so upset with them."

She put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "I will visit your mother today, and try to have her moved to St. Mungo's, failing which, I will ask my brother to have a look at her."

"Your brother, Professor?"

"Yes, my brother Angus is a doctor. If your father does not agree to have your mother moved, I could, perhaps, request my brother to examine her in the guise of a Muggle doctor. And perhaps I could transfigure his potions to make them look like Muggle medicines," said Professor McGonagall, thoughtfully.

Snape was speechless with gratitude. He wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Compose yourself, Mr Snape. I'm not surprised your friends call you Snivellus," she said, a hint of a kindly smile on her face.

After days and days of worrying alone and in secret, Snape suddenly found himself able to smile again.

x

x

x

x

The scene shifted. Snape was in Professor McGonagall's study again. She sat behind her desk, as stern as ever.

"You wished to see me, Severus."

Snape nodded. "Yes, Professor - I came to tell you that my mother is a lot better now. She's going home tomorrow. I came to thank you and Dr. McGonagall…"

"I am glad to hear that, Severus."

Snape stood there in front of her, trying to express his thoughts, but the words would not come.

"She would not have survived if not for your help," he burst out at last. "It was because of Dr. McGonagall and you that she started to get better, and now, she's almost all right again. I never thought that would be possible... I do not know how to thank you for your kindness-"

She shot him a keen look. "There is something that you could perhaps consider …"

"Yes, Professor?"

"This is an earnest request, Severus. I am not happy with the company you keep – Avery, Mulciber - perhaps you could consider finding a better set of friends to spend your time with…"

Snape hesitated, then decided to say nothing. Apart from Lily Evans, this was the first time in his life that he'd ever had friends, but he wasn't about to admit that to anyone – not even Professor McGonagall.

Professor McGonagall sighed. "I have seen them bully so many harmless students – having once been a victim of Potter and company, is it possible for you to condone that, Severus?"

Snape shrugged. She raised her eyebrows and looked at him over the tops of her glasses.

"You are perhaps, thinking that it's better to be the bully than the victim?"

Snape tried to look as if he had not been thinking so.

Professor McGonagall's eyes bored into his. "Mr. Snape, you said once that in both this world and the Muggle world, bullies get away with everything. But if you choose to become a bully and a Death Eater, you will find that I personally will oppose you. Neither I, nor your Headmaster, will stand for it…"

"That's… that's a wonderful thing to hear, Professor." He really meant it.

Professor McGonagall gave him a kindly, reassuring look. "There is no need to be either a bully or a victim – it's possible to be neither," she said.

"You're so right, Professor – I sometimes wish that I could just turn into a cat or something and escape…" said Snape.

"What do you think your Transfiguration classes are for, Severus?"

"I hate what I become when I try to be an Animagus," said Snape. "Sometimes, just once in a while, I wish I could look good... is it possible, Professor, to choose what animal you'd like to be?"

Professor McGonagall looked at him thoughtfully. "It is difficult, but not impossible. Most of us have an animal we most naturally transform into, and this has a lot to do with our personalities. But it certainly is possible to choose what shape you wish to take. I can teach you what you wish to learn. You may come to me for extra lessons once a week."

She waved away the words of gratitude that Snape was about to utter.

"That's quite all right, Mr. Snape. And now, if you'll excuse me, I have some essays to mark…"

x

x

x

x

Professor McGonagall's office dissolved, and re-formed into Dumbledore's familiar office. But Dumbledore was not in his chair. He slumbered peacefully in a golden-framed portrait on the wall, his half-moon spectacles perched upon his crooked nose.

The new Headmaster sat quietly in Dumbledore's chair : he stared wistfully at Dumbledore's portrait, infinite pain in his dark eyes, for what seemed like hours.

Hearing a step outside the door, he hastily composed himself as someone walked in. It was Professor McGonagall.

Giving Snape a look of intense hurt and loathing, she began to speak.

"It was all my fault," she said. "It was I who sent Filius to you, to ask your help. If I had not done that, you would never have joined with the Death Eaters and…" Trembling with emotion, she fell silent for a moment and then burst out again. "Dumbledore trusted you! _I_trusted you! Despite all the mistakes you've made, despite the Dark Mark on your arm, he trusted you!"

Snape's eyes were cold as ice.

"Would you prefer to resign your post here, as you apparently disapprove of the current Headmaster," he asked coolly.

"No! I will stay here to protect the students of Hogwarts! I will stay here to make your life a living hell! I once told you, Severus, years ago, that I did not approve of bullies, and that if you became one, I would be the first to oppose you. Well, I will keep my word! You once said, Severus, that there was no justice in this world, and that there is nothing to stop the wicked from preying on the weak and the innocent.  
"You will now learn, Professor Snape, that you were wrong. The wicked will not be allowed to get away with preying on the weak. You will learn that at last, Professor Snape, and you will learn it from me!"

She stormed out, slamming the door behind her.

x

Snape sank down into the Headmaster's chair, and hid his face in his trembling hands. Then he looked up at Dumbledore's portrait again. Dumbledore was wide awake now.

"You asked me to do this… this terrible deed, and I obeyed you. And in doing so, I have murdered a beloved Headmaster, and I have immeasurably hurt the Professor who was kindest to me and whom I respected most…" His voice faltered. A sound like a wounded animal filled the room.

x

x

x

x

I emerged from the Pensieve and sank down on the floor in a corner of the room, pulling the Invisibility Cloak over my head. Fortunately, Snape was nowhere in sight. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the Pensieve's wide basin with runic markings, I managed to compose myself enough to go home.

x


	9. Chapter 9

x

**GREASE**

x

**Chapter 9**

x

Every night, I lay in bed, feeling, as they say, like something the cat brought in. Sometimes, an exploration of the hidden recesses of your own mind can have as devastating an effect as the combined consumption of all the contents of a standard Skiving Snackbox. I felt as weak as if I'd consumed a Fainting Fancy, and as feverish as if I'd partaken of Fever Fudge. I had not lately had the pleasure of popping a Puking Pastille, but I regret to say that I felt as if I had.

I was leading a double life. During the day, I was Harry Cheerful Potter to the Weasley family, but at night I found myself having to come to grips with a black depression that was so intense, it frightened me.

And it was all Severus' fault. All had been well at the Weasley residence, until the old hook-nosed bat had given George his tuppence worth of advice. "Don't sweep it under the carpet. Show your misery to the world..." And so, George had hit upon the brilliant idea of weeding the garden, every time he thought of Fred. He explained this to me, but didn't explain it to his family. And so, every time George went out into the garden, I felt so guilty I couldn't think straight, while Mrs Weasley and the others were somewhat mystified, but delighted at his sudden interest in gardening.

Sometimes, George would be out in the garden all night. I often spotted him out there working by the light of the moon, weeding the garden, thinking of Fred. Every night, I retreated to my room, racked with guilt, and stood at the window, watching George.

x

x

It was all my fault. I took a mental inventory of all the people who'd lost their lives because of me. My mother. My father. Sirius Black. Mad-Eye Moody. Professor Lupin. Tonks. Dobby. Fred. Hedwig.

Hedwig. It's funny how much a pet can come to mean to you. Hedwig had been my only companion at the Dursley residence, a sympathetic listener, a true friend. And for a while, I thought I'd found a successor to him – Aquila, the sardonic eagle that I'd met at Snape's place. He'd been a good listener, too.

I had found a way to let Aquila enter my room – I had charmed the window to make it widen whenever he tapped on it with his beak. He would spread his magnificent wings and swoop inside, and then the window would go back its normal size. I kept a stump of wood in the corner of my room as a perch for him, but of late he'd even begun to perch on my arm. He had never perched on my arm before, for fear of hurting me, but one day, when I happened to have a thick jacket on, Aquila, much to my delight, had perched on my leather-covered forearm for the first time. After that, I went out and bought a padded hawking glove, some sixteen inches long. And he would sit on my arm, and I'd talk to him.

I'd talk and talk and talk... about all the people who'd died because of me. About George weeding the garden. About my parents. About Dumbledore. About Voldemort. About Ginny going away to a Quidditch Coaching Camp for weeks and weeks, and leaving me all alone here. And about Severus, his greasy hair and his twopenny advice.

x

x

I never expected any sort of a response from Aquila. I talked to him simply because it was a relief to talk to someone – anyone – about the things that weighed on my mind. But surprisingly Aquila began in his own way to give me a bit of advice.

One night, when he found me at the window, looking at George, and practically crying with guilt, Aquila gave me a piece of his mind. He swooped down into the garden, and reappeared a couple of minutes later with a trowel in his beak. This he proceeded to force into my hand.

"Very nice," I said, irritably. "What am I supposed to do with it?"

Aquila looked out at the garden, then suddenly flew out, circled around it and flew back to me.

"You mean, I shouldn't stand here feeling sorry for myself, but should go down there and help George with his gardening?"

I looked at him with a new respect.

"Have you been disgusted with me all this time, Aquila? Have you been revolted by the way I've been wallowing in self pity?"

Aquila flew over to me and perched on my arm. It wasn't easy for a sardonic bird of prey like him to give me a kindly look, but he did his best.

x

x

Just then, George burst into the room, complaining vociferously that my pet hawk had just stolen his trowel.

I was about to apologise and give it back to him, when George suddenly noticed my wet, grime stained visage.

"What's wrong, Harry?"

I shrugged. "If you're thinking of Fred all the time, so'm I," I muttered.

"You were thinking of Fred?"

"George, I killed your brother."

I took of my glasses and wiped them dry. But before I could put them on again, they were snatched out of my hand.

George peered searchingly at me through my own glasses, with an exaggeratedly short sighted look. After giving me a long, slow once-over, a delighted smile spread over his face.

"Ah, of course! You must be Tom Riddle," he exclaimed in a quavery old lady's voice, "I haven't had the pleasure of meeting you before, but I've heard so much about you, my dear boy. If you murdered my poor, dear brother, then you must definitely be Tom..."

"Shut up, George," I said uncomfortably. "You know what I mean –"

"Ah! It _is _Mr Riddle, then," said George, in triumph. "I've heard so much about your charming manners..."

"George, please..." I said, "this isn't a thing to joke about –"

"With a name like Riddle, I'd have expected you to have a better sense of humour," said George, in quavery disgust.

"George, please," I said, "Please let me talk to you."

He took off my glasses and handed them back to me. He sat down on my bed and pulled me down beside him.

"May I talk to you first," he asked, in his normal voice.

I nodded.

"Harry – it was Voldemort who was responsible for all that, not you."

"But it was because I opposed him that..." I began.

George stood up and put on my glasses again.

"Harry Potter is right, my dear boy," he said to me. "It's shameful the way people blame you for everything, Tom. You're such a gentle, sweet individual. If Potter had not opposed you, you would never have hurt a fly. Oh Tom my dear, you are so misunderstood!"

I looked up at him without a trace of a smile. "George ... I... I'm sorry."

"For what," he asked.

I looked straight into his eyes. "Can you honestly tell me," I asked, "can you honestly say that you've never once held me responsible for Fred's death?"

George sat down quietly beside me, and surprisingly put his long, gangly arm around my shoulders.

"I've thought about it a lot," he said, after a while. "I've thought of everything we might have done to save him. I've blamed every person alive for it, including myself. But Harry –" his blue eyes looked into mine. "I know you've thought the same things, too. I know you've spent almost every waking moment wondering what you could have done differently, and thinking of all the people you could have saved, and you've blamed yourself harder than any of us can ever have blamed you. So... what can I say?"

He squeezed my shoulder so hard that I found a bruise on it later.

"I won't ask you not to stay up all night thinking about it, because I know you will," he said. "But I'm here whenever you need me, all right?"

I nodded, and tried to smile. But George's kindness had in fact made me feel more guilty than before.

After George had left, trowel in hand, I looked for Aquila. But he wasn't on his perch. He'd tactfully left the room when I was talking to George.

I sank into bed and stared up at the ceiling. Odd, unrelated thoughts crept into my mind. As I had asked George's forgiveness, Severus had asked mine. But my response had been very different from George's. My gaze wandered to the picture of a turquoise haired baby that I kept by my bedside.

'Teddy," I said, "if I asked you to forgive me, what would your answer be? Would your answer be Harry's or George's?"

x

x

x

x

And then there was that day I'd covered the walls of my room with pictures of all the people who'd died and all the people who'd every right to hate me because I'd killed the people they'd been closest to. That was the day I'd visited Teddy Lupin and his grandmother, Andromeda.

Andromeda had lost her husband, her daughter and her son-in-law in the fight against Voldemort. It had been Voldemort's strategy to kill as many people as possible who were close to me. I had been the reason for Tonks' death, and Remus' death, too, and that day, as I stood on Andromeda's doorstep, she looked as if she knew it.

She was polite to me, though. She invited me in, spoke kindly to me and gave me a delicious tea. But I could see the lines of worry etched on her forehead, the hair that had in a few short weeks turned from brown to grey, and the cold, hard grief in her eyes. Her grandson had retreated to her lap, his hair a mousy brown, and was surveying me with undisguised suspicion.

When that visit was over, I went back to the Burrow and headed straight for the lavatory. That was the one place Mrs Weasley couldn't follow me into, to ask, "How did your visit go, dear?" That was the one place that I thought was completely private. But no. A bird with a beaky nose was perched on a branch outside the window, looking anxiously in at me.

I leaned out of the window and glared at Aquila. "Go away," I said, trying to whisper and growl at the same time. Aquila stayed put.

"This is how it's going to be," I said to him. "I'm going to be skulking in here for the rest of my life. And when I die, my ghost will still be in here, crying. I'll be known as Howling Harry, the male equivalent of Moaning Myrtle. And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to flush myself down the..."

There was a loud knock at the door, and I heard Ron's voice outside, irritably asking who the hell was in there.

"It's me," I yelled, apologetically. "I'll be out in a minute."

I had hurriedly composed myself and departed from the lavatory with dignity. Then I'd gone up to my attic, and in a frenzy of guilt, papered the walls with pictures of all the people who'd died because of me.

And like a Professor at Hogwarts explaining some abstruse point that he'd written on the blackboard, I explained each picture to Aquila, who had just flown in through the window and perched on his tree stump.

"This," I'd said, pointing to a picture of a baby with turquoise blue hair, "is Teddy Lupin, my godson. I killed his parents. And this..."

So intent had I been on my lecture, that I hadn't noticed Ron entering the room. Ron had listened quietly for a while, and silently left the room in horror. Then he'd gone down to the kitchen and told his mother about the "bloody vulture in Harry's room" that was "making Harry miserable."

And Mrs Weasley had marched up to my room, picked up my precious Firebolt, and proceeded to unceremoniously evict Aquila from the premises, by the simple expedient of whacking him with my broom. (That was the only time I'd ever seen Aquila look scared.) In vain did I protest again and again that Aquila was just a delivery eagle and was_ not _making me miserable.

Aquila was permanently and officially debarred by Mrs Weasley from entering the Weasley residence again. And somehow that made me more miserable than before. It's true, he was a new friend, a recent one. Not an old friend like Hedwig. But still, I missed him a lot.

x

x

So there I was, alone in my attic room one morning, missing Aquila and missing Ginny, when Mrs Weasley swept in with a revoltingly cheerful smile on her plump, kindly face.

"Harry dear, I wonder if you could help me with something. Would you mind picking up a parcel for me from Madam Malkin's?"

I knew what she was trying to do. Keep Harry busy, so he wouldn't have time to think morbid thoughts. Well, maybe she was right.

I nodded, and stood up at once. "I'll go right away, shall I?"

"That would be nice, dear," she said.

x

x

x

x

Strolling up Diagon Alley, my spirits revived somewhat. The posters of Death Eaters that has plastered the shop fronts were gone. Many of the old shops had reopened, and the coloured umbrellas of the cafés were unfurled once more. Standing at the steps of Madam Malkin's I looked across the road, hoping against hope that Florean Fortescue was back in business. He was! Looking at the rainbow coloured umbrellas that shaded Florean's outdoor tables, I felt ridiculously elated. Ice cream was back in the Wizard world once more, and a world with Florean's free sundaes in it wasn't such a bad old world.

Whistling tunefully, I walked into Madam Malkin's and waited patiently for her to finish with the customer before me. He was a tall man with a long grey beard, wearing a Muggle nightgown. _Archie! _ Severus' publisher! Or rather, Matilda Blott's publisher. I gave him a broad grin, and he smiled back at me.

I wondered what Archie was ordering. I soon found out.

Madam Malkin looked at him somewhat apprehensively, as he produced a Muggle history book entitled "_The Historie of England From the Time That It Was First Inhabited, Vntill the Time That It Was Last Conquered: Wherein the Sundrie Alterations of the State Vnder Forren People Is Declared; And Other Manifold Observations Remembred." _

She nervously fidgeted with her measuring tape as she watched Archie leaf through the book in search of the page he wanted. She was an accomplished seamstress, who could handle any demand made on her talents by the Wizard world, but Archie's outlandish orders for Muggle clothes flustered her immensely.

"Ah, here we are," said Archie, preparing to read something out of the book. Madam Malkin primly held out her hand for it. Archie handed it to her, and she read out the following :

"... a gowne of blew satten..."

"He means, blue satin," explained Archie.

"Then why doesn't he say so," snapped Madam Malkin, and continued reading.

"... a gowne of blew satten, full of small oilet holes..." She looked at him. _"Oilet _holes?"

"He means eyelet holes," explained Archie, pleasantly.

Madam Malkin snorted and read on.

"... full of small oilet holes, at euerie hole the needle hanging by a silke thred, with which it was sewed. About his arme he ware a hounds collar set full of gold..."

"Oh, I don't need that," said Archie. "I don't need the gold band around my arm, thank you."

"Mr Holland, am I to understand that you want a blue satin gown, decorated with eyelet holes, with a thread and needle hanging from each hole?"

Archie smiled and nodded. "That is correct," he said.

"Why," asked Madam Malkin, her lower lip quivering, "_why_ would any self-respecting Wizard want to wear a thing like that?"

"It's for a book launch," explained Archie. "There's a new Matilda Blott book coming out, you see, and..."

"Mr. Holland," said Madam Malkin, "this is the most ridiculous order that I have ever taken. I suspect that this is something that Muggle _women _wore in history, and in any case, I have to be honest with you, Mr. Holland. You will look _ridiculous _in a gown like that..."

"Do you really think so," asked Archie with interest. "To be honest, I thought it would look rather fetching on me, dear lady. And strangely enough, it _is _a design intended for a man. According to the Muggle historian Raphael Holinshed, a gown of this description was once worn by an actual Muggle prince. But for my everyday wear, I've always preferred Muggle women's designs, for as you know, I like a cool breeze around my..."

"Yes, yes of course," said Madam Malkin, primly pursing her lips. "I will have the gown ready for you in a week's time."

"Thank you, dear lady," said Archie with a courteous bow.

"Hrrrrmph!" said Madam Malkin.

Archie now turned his attention to me. "What a pleasant surprise it is to meet you here, Harry!"

"You too, Mr. Holland," I said. I was beginning to like Archie as much as I liked Gwillim. Though I did not know either of them very well, there was something about them.

"Call me Archie," he said. "Short for Archimedes. How are you, Harry? Why don't you come up to our office for a few minutes after your work is done? It's next door – right above Flourish and Blott's."

I promised him that I would.

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	10. Chapter 10

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GREASE

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Chapter 10

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Clutching Mrs Weasley's parcel under my arm, I made my way up the narrow staircase behind Flourish and Blott's. I gently knocked on a handsome wooden door with an elegant brass plate bearing the legend, "Holland and Tudor: Publishers," and cautiously pushed it open.

Inside, I waded my way through what appeared to be a forest of potted plants, with luridly coloured leaves. There were maroon, yellow and green crotons with virulently patterned leaves. There were fragrant ferns and striped, hairy leaved zebra-lilies. Not to mention dangerously thorny cacti, fleshy leaved succulents, and an unidentified herb with sticky purple leaves that left nasty smelling trails of goo all over my jumper. (I later learned that Archie and Gwillim's receptionist, Calpurnia Cadwallader, was responsible for the interior decoration of this area of their office.)

I elbowed my way to Miss Cadwallader's desk, sucking my thumb, which had been injected with a foul smelling substance by a syringe-like thorn. Before I could introduce myself, she gave an excited squeal and turned pink, seeing the scar on my forehead. "You must be Mr. Harry Potter," she squeaked, the large leek in her hair waving wildly in her excitement.

"Er, yes," I said. "Mr Holland invited me..."

"Yes, yes!" she said, excitedly. "He's expecting you. But Professor Snape has just gone in to meet him. Would you prefer to join them, or wait, Mr. Potter?"

"I'll wait here, thank you," I said. "I'll just look around at all your lovely indoor plants..."

I thought I'd lose myself amongst the plants, put on my invisibility cloak and eavesdrop on Snape, but I just couldn't shake Calpurnia off. Spectacles a-glitter, she forcibly took me on a guided tour of the reception area, shrilly pointing out to me the special features of each and every beloved plant that she had lovingly raised from seed to its present outrageous level of growth. She stuck to me like a burr. Exercising considerable ingenuity, I finally managed to escape, muttering apologetically that there was something I needed to see to and that I'd be "back in a minute."

In fact, I was back in a few seconds, swathed in my invisibility cloak. _"Silencio," _I whispered, and having thus silenced the swishing of the leaves, I slunk my way noiselessly to the door of Archie and Gwillim's office.

Putting my ear to the door, I heard the familiar voice of "Matilda Blott," discussing his new book with Gwillim and Archie.

"I think it's about time you openly acknowledged the person for whom the books were written, Severus," said Gwillim's voice.

"That's right," agreed Archie. "Now that you know Harry well enough, why don't you dedicate the new book to him? I'm sure he'd be delighted!"

Snape's answer was a succinct "No."

"Why not," asked Gwillim.

"Because he hates me," said Snape, in the matter-of-fact, emotionless tone of one who was simply stating a well known fact.

"Severus, I saw him at your house the other day," said Gwillim, "and it seemed to me that he looked happy to be with you..."

"That was before he remembered that I killed his parents," said Snape.

"Severus, you did not kill his parents!"

"Oh yes, I did," said Severus, "and I killed his godfather, too!"

"Well, if Harry feels strongly about that," began Archie.

'_Archie!" _bellowed Snape, "a boy would obviously feel strongly about his parents being murdered."

"Archie, I saw Harry sitting with Severus, having a cheerful conversation," said Gwillim.

"I saw Harry too," said Archie.

"And did he have a murderous look, Archie? Did he look as if he 'hated' Severus?" asked Gwillim.

"Far from it," said Archie. "He was calm and courteous, and he looked very intelligent, too. 'Good afternoon, Professor,' he said."

I had felt anything but intelligent and calm at the time, but was happy to know that I'd successfully managed to appear so.

"Well, Archie, after courteously wishing him a good afternoon, and having a cheerful conversation with him, Severus would have us believe that the boy, suddenly remembering his parents, started to shout abuse at him..." I could hear the smile in Gwillim's voice, and I heard Archie chuckle, too.

But that was exactly what had happened that day. I had, in fact, remembered the prophecy, and started to abuse Professor Snape, who'd been doing his best to overcome his former prejudices against me. I held my breath, and nervously pressed my ear against the door. Would Snape tell Archie and Gwillim of all the things I'd said and done, in embarrassing detail?

He did not. "Well," he said, "the fact remains that I will not dedicate the book to Harry."

"Why," asked Gwillim. "Is it because you dislike the boy? Or is it because you hesitate to express your affection to him..."

"I dislike him," said Snape.

"And it's because you dislike him that you've been writing book after book expressing your concern for his well being and his safety..."

"I don't dislike him," said Snape. "I hate him. I hated his father. And his godfather, too. In fact, I murdered them both..."

"Severus, this is perhaps too much to ask, but will you be rational for a moment?" said Gwillim.

Snape made a nondescript sound, halfway between a snort and a growl.

"Severus, we have known you for so many years, now," continued Gwillim, "and Archie and I are both aware of the pain you went through after the Potters' death."

"We know how concerned you were for Harry's safety," added Archie, "and you even told us how you implored Professor Dumbledore to allow you to bring up the boy, as you wanted to made amends for what had happened."

"And we also know," added Gwillim, "that when he came to Hogwarts, you never picked up the courage to tell Harry how much you cared about him. And we know how jealous you were of Lupin and Sirius..."

"I did _not_ care about him," snarled Snape, "and I was not jealous of Lupin and Sirius..."

"Well, you told me in a very jealous tone of voice that he was getting very close to his father's friends. Severus, when you had a chance to get close to Harry yourself, you chose not to. But Sirius Black and Remus Lupin simply stepped in and gave the boy what he needed, without being self-centred like you, and worrying about what Harry would think of them."

"So Sirius hath a tear for pity, and a hand open as day for melting charity," said a sarcastic Snape.

"No," said Gwillim. "It was not charity. It was love. They gave him their love."

"How touching," sneered Snape. "A werewolf and an ex-convict giving the boy their love..."

"If you had wished to do so, you could have added a former Death Eater to their number," said Gwillim. "Severus, you made this mistake before – don't make the same mistake again. Speak to Harry. Tell him..."

"Why should I," interrupted Snape.

"Why should you? Severus, you've been thinking of Lily's son ever since her death. You've been living, breathing, eating and sleeping with Harry on your mind..."

"But to him, I'm nobody. I don't exist. I'm the man who killed his parents."

Gwillim refrained from pointing out to Severus that if he did not exist, he could not also be the man who killed my parents. "But Severus, if Harry could see the depth of your remorse..."

Through the keyhole, I saw Snape get to his feet. "...would that bring his parents back to life?" he snapped. "Would the depth of my remorse make any difference to him?"

"Well, I'm sure that it would make a difference to Harry to know that someone cares so much for him," said Archie's deep, kindly voice.

"What if it does not make a difference to him," snarled Snape. "What if he doesn't want to associate with a hook-nosed, greasy haired ugly git who... who..."

"Yes?"

"...who loved his mother." Snape restlessly paced the floor and I saw his fists clench. "Archie... Gwillim..." he said, "if you really look at it, isn't it wrong for a man to love a woman who's married to someone else? And wouldn't it disgust him to know that I..." he broke of, and then went on. "I've been thinking of Lily's son for years and years," he said simply. "And so, if Harry looked at me with hatred and disgust, I... couldn't take it."

"And so, to protect yourself from hurt, you're going to continue to sneer at him and mock him, and treat him like dirt, so he'll never suspect what you really think of him?" Gwillim's voice was hard and disapproving.

"Precisely," said Snape.

"Severus," said Archie, "We cannot tell you what to do or what not to do. And it is not for us to tell you whether we approve or disapprove of your actions..."

"Rubbish!" interjected Gwillim. "I can tell him what I think, if I want to. Severus, you're a coward."

"Don't call me..." began Snape through clenched teeth, but Gwillim ignored him.

"You're a coward, Severus. You are afraid to show the boy your love, for fear that it might be rejected by him, or seem repulsive to him."

Snape shrugged. "I don't fear it. I know it. He's James Potter's son..."

"You're not only a coward," said Gwillim, "but also a prejudiced, opinionated..."

"...greasy haired Death Eater," finished Snape, with a silky smile. "...oh and Gwillim, I'd like you to do something for me."

"And what is that," asked Gwillim.

"Put an obituary in the Daily Prophet, saying that Matilda Blott is dead," said Snape.

"I'll do nothing of the sort," said Gwillim.

"Why not," demanded Snape.

"Because," said Gwillim simply, "you're not dead. You may be a misguided, rude, offensive coward, but you're not dead."

"I wish I was," said Snape, suddenly sounding miserable.

"Well," said Gwillim unsympathetically, "You have only yourself to blame."

I couldn't see Severus' face, but having been his student for years, I could well imagine the withering glare he would have turned on Gwillim at that point. But Gwillim didn't wither.

'Oh and Severus," he said, "There's something I'd like you to do for me." He handed Snape something that I couldn't see. "I'd like you to visit all these locations and tell me what you think of them, before I send out my crew to take photographs of them for the book..."

"I told you that I didn't want pictures in the book. Only black print on a white page," said Snape.

"How boring," said Gwillim. "But if you won't co-operate, I'll ask Harry to go and have a look at them."

"_Harry? _You're going to ask _him _to choose locations to photograph for my book?"

"Yes," said Gwillim. "But maybe you should go with him, Severus. I can't send a young boy alone to all those remote areas..."

Snape saw through Gwillim's rather obvious attempt to send us on a holiday together.

'I'll protect him, but I won't go with him," said Snape.

"What d'you mean," asked Gwillim.

"I'll go in the form of an animagus – that way, I can keep an eye on him without having to talk to him."

"That would be nice. Thank you, Severus."

Snape growled in reply, and turned to leave.

I hastily got out of his way as he approached the door, wondering what form he took as an animagus. I had visions of a long black snake following me from scenic spot to scenic spot, keeping an eye on me without talking to me.

x

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Severus walked out of Archie and Gwillim's office and stood for a moment at the window, staring out of it, trying to calm himself down. He stared unseeingly out of the window for a long while, his hands in the pockets of his robe. The look in his eyes brought a strange, prickly lump to my throat and I could no longer watch in silence.

"Severus," I mumbled almost inaudibly, "I don't hate you."

Jerked out of his reverie, Professor Snape turned around with a start, inadvertently catching Calpurnia's eye as he looked for me.

"Yes, Professor? Did you say something," she asked.

"I...er...thought I heard someone speak, but I'm not sure if I imagined it," said Severus.

"You authors spend so much time in the world of the imagination that you find it difficult to come back down to earth," said Calpurnia, kindly. "What you need to do is to get back to reality, Professor Snape. Grow a garden! Get your hands in the dirt!"

Snape stared at her with a dazed look on his normally composed face.

"Are you quite well, Professor Snape?" asked Calpurnia.

"Er... yes," said Severus. "Yes, I'm quite well."

I reached out and clasped his hand, to tell him that yes, he _had _heard me speak and had not imagined it.

Calpurnia let out a shrill shriek of horror, as my invisibility cloak temporarily masked Severus' hand from view.

"Professor Snape!" she squeaked. "What happened to your hand? It's disappeared!"

I hurriedly took my hand away, and Severus grinned.

"Severus of the Severed Hand," he intoned in a sinister, sepulchral voice. "My hands are perfectly all right, Miss Cadwallader – look!"

He displayed both hands to her and she ran her eyes over them, her spectacles glittering with in suspicion.

"Perhaps you need new glasses, Miss Cadwallader," suggested Snape.

"Indeed I do not," said Calpurnia, with an indignant sniff.

"Well, I have to be off now," said Snape. "Goodbye, er..." He looked vaguely in my direction.

"Miss Cadwallader," snapped Calpurnia. "After all these years, have you forgotten my name, Professor Snape? You'll be forgetting your own name next."

Snape gave her an apologetic smile. "Well, goodbye," he said.

"Mr Potter was here a moment ago," said Calpurnia. "Wouldn't you like to stay and meet him?"

"No, I unfortunately have to leave now," said Snape, "but if you see Mr Potter again, you could tell him... you could tell him that, er..." Severus' eyes filled with tears.

"Professor Snape," squealed Calpurnia loudly, "why are your eyes watering?"

"I don't know," he muttered. "It must be that leek in your hair." And he hastily made himself scarce before Calpurnia could utter the indignant retort that she was so obviously preparing.

I rushed out after him, but to my disappointment, Professor Snape disapparated with a pop.

Taking off my invisibility cloak, I went back in.

Calpurnia was still bristling with rage over Severus' remark.

"Mr. Potter," she squeaked angrily, "does the leek in my hair make your eyes water?"

"Er... no," I said, soothingly. "Not at all. Far from it."

I took out my handkerchief and blew my nose.

'But your eyes _are _watering," she said.

And indeed they were.

"But it's not because of your leek," I said.

Which was perfectly true.

"Are you allergic to tropical plants, Mr. Potter?" she asked in sudden concern.

I knew how much she loved her plants. 'Oh no," I said hastily. "Not at all."

She produced a large emerald green can of Muggle anti-allergic spray.

"Perhaps this will help, Mr. Potter," she said, pointing the nozzle at me and placing a determined finger on top of it.

Fortunately, Archie emerged from his office just at that moment to see if I'd arrived yet, and I was saved.

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_Note : Snape's quote is from Henry IV Part II, by William Shakespeare. _


	11. Chapter 11

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**GREASE**

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**Chapter 11**

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What if I'd never eavesdropped on Trelawney and Dumbledore?

I'd never have heard the prophecy.

I'd never have rushed excitedly to the Dark Lord to tell him what I'd heard...

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And what if Lord Voldemort had never heard the prophecy? He would have had nothing against the Potters. He would not have tried to destroy them. And if he and Harry had met on the street one day, they would have had no reason to take any notice of each other, and passed each other by without comment.

And the most beautiful person in the world would still be alive...

x

George was right. Yes, I did imagine that Lily's son would have her red hair and her beautiful smile. And yes, it was a shock to me to have the child of my imagination replaced by a replica of James Potter complete with outrageous Quidditch talent, an arrogant attitude and ... and Lily's eyes.

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I felt a violent whack on my back and heard a loud friendly voice roar in my ear.

"Severus," roared Florean Fortescue, "save all your deep thought for another time and another place. How many times have I told you that long reveries do not go well with ice-cream. Ice-cream will not wait for you to take notice of it! Ice-cream will _melt!"_

Florean pointed his wand at the liquid in the tall glass in front of me and it refroze into the sundae that it had once been. He whacked my back again.

"There you are!" he said.

I expressed my gratitude with a grateful grin.

I'd known Florean as long as I'd known Gwillim. I had sat in his café for hours, trying hard to produce a Potions textbook that would be good enough for Gwillim to publish, and failing miserably, time after time. And every time I came down here from Gwillim's office, upset over his latest rejection of my writing, Florean would give me a free sundae. And I'd resolve to try again.

"Are you waiting for someone," asked Florean.

"Er, no," I replied. But that was a lie. I was waiting for Harry.

I knew better than anyone else how much trouble eavesdropping could cause. But I wished I could be a spider on the wall of Archie and Gwillim's office, listening to their chat with Harry. Would they be talking about me? They would, of course. And what would they be saying about me? I did not dare to think about it.

And yet...

Did I really hear Harry's voice come out of Calpurnia's forest of overgrown tropical weeds? Did I hear him say that he did not hate me?

He must have been hiding in his invisibility cloak and listening in on the ridiculous conversation I'd just had with Archie and Gwillim. I think I must have told them a hundred times that Harry hated me...

"Severus!" bellowed Florean "Just look at your sundae!"

"Sorry," I muttered. "Terribly sorry."

"What's the matter, Severus," he asked. "Did you get another book rejected?"

"No," I said. "Fortunately that hasn't happened for many years, now."

"Well what's wrong," he asked. "What are you crying over now?"

"Florean," I said with dignity, "Grown men don't cry. But on occasion, they find themselves overcome with emotion."

"All right, then," he said obligingly, "why are you overcome with emotion?"

"Someone just told me that they didn't hate me," I said.

Florean looked puzzled. "So you're upset about that?"

'No, on the contrary, I'm... immensely touched," I said.

"You're crying – sorry, overcome with emotion - because someone said they didn't dislike you?"

"That is correct," I answered. "I'm like an orphan brought up on gruel tasting his first ice-cream sundae."

Florean put his hand on my shoulder.

"Severus, I wish the orphan a beautiful ice-cream sundae every day for the rest of his life," he said.

I wanted to thank him for saying that. But I couldn't. Because I was cr... overcome with emotion.


	12. Chapter 12

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**GREASE**

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**Chapter 12**

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Archie and Gwillim stared at me in astonishment.

"You didn't know that Severus was a writer?" asked Gwillim.

Looking at Gwillim's black robe, I wondered if it was in emulation of Gwillim that Severus always wore black. But black made Severus look so severe. And Gwillim, in person, looked even warmer and kinder than he'd looked in the pensieve.

"No," I said apologetically. "Not until last week."

'He told you about it only last week?" asked Archie.

I looked at Archie's lavender nightie with its elegant touch of tatted lace at the sleeves. It occurred to me that the colour lavender went very well with his grey beard.

"No, Professor Snape didn't tell me about it," I explained. "It was a friend..."

It was actually while eavesdropping on Severus and George that I'd discovered that Severus was Matilda Blott. But I couldn't very well tell Gwillim and Archie that.

"I suppose you've had a look at his books after that?" asked Gwillim, with a smile.

I shook my head, regretfully.

Mrs Weasley didn't keep her Matilda Blott books in the large bookcase downstairs. She kept them in her room, and read them late into the night. I had more than once contemplated stealing into her room and purloining a few, but had rejected the plan as being too sneaky.

'I've been meaning to pick up a few of his books from Flourish and Blott's, but somehow haven't got around to it," I said. "What does he write? Potions textbooks?"

I had a vague idea of what Severus wrote, but wanted to know more. In fact, I wanted to know a lot more about those books he'd written for me, which was why I was feigning complete ignorance on the subject.

Archie and Gwillim looked at each other.

"Well, Harry," said Gwillim at last, "it looks like Archie and I have a lot of explaining to do. But there's so much we have to tell you that I don't know where to start..." He laughed, suddenly. "Archie, the next time we see Severus, remind me to box his ears."

"That I will not do," smiled the gentle Archie, "but we shall certainly take him to task, Gwillim."

They both grinned at me. I smiled back.

There is a Muggle saying that you can learn a lot about a man by looking at his choice of friends, and I reflected that this was true of the wizard world, too. Severus' warm, gentle friends were introducing me to a side of Professor Snape that I knew very little about. Dumbledore had called it the best part of Severus.

"Why," I asked, "why is he so secretive about his writing?"

"Severus doesn't believe in wearing his heart on his sleeve," said Archie. "And his books reveal everything that he tries so hard to hide." Archie looked thoughtful. "Severus always makes me think of Beedle the Bard's tale of the Warlock's Hairy Heart..."

I must have looked blank, for Archie looked at me in surprise. "Didn't anyone read it to you when you were young, Harry?"

I shook my head, apologetically. "No, I'm afraid not. I was brought up by Muggles, you see."

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My Aunt Petunia wasn't the kind of woman who read books – either to herself or to her children. Severus was right. I'd never seen her with anything more challenging than a Muggle magazine.

And should I have used the word "children?" No, I should have said "child." I had never qualified to be her son. For that matter, I hadn't even qualified to be her nephew. And why, I reflected, should that thought make me feel so miserable even now? After all these years? I didn't know. But it did.

Not that I'd admit to anyone that the Dursleys' attitude to me had hurt me. I remembered again the sick, burning feeling of shame that Rita Skeeter's article had given me, when Severus had read it out loud in class...

_"I suppose I get my strength from my parents, I know they would be very proud if they could see me now... yes, sometimes at night I still cry about them, I'm not ashamed to admit it..."_

_"Tears filled those startlingly green eyes as our conversation turns to the parents he can barely remember –"_

Those words had sounded much, much worse when Snape had read them out loud. They had sounded obscene, almost as if Snape had stripped me naked in public. Had he done that to me because my father had stripped him naked in public too?

But I was _Harry_ Potter, not James. I had hardly known my father at all. So why did I have to take the flak for James' misdeeds? To be fair, I was sure that my father would never have wanted me to pay the price for youthful misdemeanours that he might have regretted later in life. It was Snape who had decided that I must do so.

And yet...

Had Severus really asked Dumbledore if he could adopt me? I thought I'd heard Archie say that he had. Eavesdropping outside their office just then, I thought I'd heard Archie (or was it Gwillim?) say that Severus had wanted to adopt me, to make amends for what he'd done to my parents.

What would life have been like, growing up with Severus as my father? Would each day have started off with sneering remarks at the breakfast table? Would my misdemeanours have been answered with jars of cockroaches broken over my head? Would I too have joined Hogwarts wearing my black hair in long greasy curtains?

No.

Somehow, I knew it wouldn't have been like that. I would have had hot chocolate and two-man Quidditch matches. I would have had a fierce guardian angel (with an extensive knowledge of the Dark Arts) watching over me and protecting me from harm. And I would never, ever have been made to feel unwanted and unloved...

x

I stared at my shoes, and when I looked up, Gwillim gave me a look so kind that it might have been a hug. How much did he know about the Dursleys and their treatment of their utterly unwanted nephew? And although he was Severus' friend, was he aware of the venomous side of Snape? The nasty side of Severus that I'd been so familiar with at Hogwarts?

He probably knew everything there was to know. There is a common misconception that kindly people are always a bit stupid, but Gwillim was a living refutation of that theory. He was sharp and intelligent. I could sense that just by looking at him.

x

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"What was that tale," I asked out loud. "That tale of Beedle the Bard?"

Archie cleared his throat with the genial air of an uncle preparing to tell his favourite nephew a story, and proceeded to regale me with what must have been Beedle the Bard's most gruesome tale of all.

The protagonist of the story was a young warlock who thought he could do without love. He therefore locked up his heart in a trunk, placed the trunk in his dungeon, and proceeded to live his life in a rational, unemotional manner. He avoided close relationships of any sort. Even the unfortunate deaths of his parents left him unmoved.

As Archie spoke on, I waited with bated breath for a beautiful heroine to appear, and show the hero what was what.

"And then one day," said Archie, "the warlock overheard two servants gossiping about him. One pitied him, and the other ridiculed him for not having a wife. The warlock immediately decided to take a wife, to make himself the envy of all. And most conveniently for all concerned, the warlock happened to meet a beautiful, skilful wealthy witch the very next day."

Fairy tales, I thought, were so predictable.

Sure enough, the warlock began to woo the beautiful witch, and she agreed to attend a feast at his castle. But the young witch soon began to suspect that there was something missing – something strange about the warlock. And so she confronted him, and said that she could trust his beautiful words only if she thought he had a heart.

I suppressed a yawn. Now, I supposed, the hero and heroine would go down to the dungeon, retrieve the heart, pop it back into the warlock's breast, and then the violins would start to play, and a warm glow would suffuse them both as they declared their love for each other.

How wrong I was.

The warlock took the beautiful maiden down to the dungeon, and there revealed to her his heart. The heart, which had by this time become shrunken and hairy, because of its exile from the warlock's body, was utterly revolting to the beautiful heroine. She begged the warlock to "put it back." The warlock tried to put it back in his anatomy, where it belonged, but his heart, which had now grown strange and perverse from its long isolation, took savage action against him.

"By this time," said Archie, "the guests at the feast upstairs had begun to wonder about their host."

The guests began to search the castle, and finally came upon the happy couple in the dungeon. On the ground lay the dead maiden with her chest cut open. Crouched beside her was the mad warlock, licking and caressing the shining scarlet heart that he had just extracted from her body, planning to switch it for his own heart. His own shrunken hairy heart, however, refused to co-operate with the plan, and would not leave his body.

The warlock, swearing never to be mastered by his heart, seized a dagger and cut it from his chest. Briefly victorious, he stood triumphantly with a bleeding heart in each hand before he fell over the maiden and died.

Having told me the tale, Archie sat back in his chair and smiled benevolently at me. I stared at him in silence, wondering what to make of it.

"The moral, Harry, is that you should never shut love out of your life," said Gwillim, helpfully. "Shall we have some tea?" He left the room, presumably to fetch the tea.

"But... how does that story remind you of Professor Snape," I asked Archie, who was still smiling benevolently at me.

Severus, offensive as he could sometimes be, surely did not deserve to be compared to the mad warlock in the tale! I couldn't shake from my mind the horrible image of the warlock standing with a bleeding heart in each hand.

"Severus," said Archie, "admires people like the warlock – I do not understand why. Why would a gentle, sensitive person who has the capacity to give so much to the people he loves, want to create an impression in public that he's a sneering, sardonic Death Eater? But he does."

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I thought I understood why. If the girl you love doesn't reciprocate your affections, you don't want to make a fool of yourself crying over it in public. And so you create an elaborate image of yourself as a man of steel who prefers Dark Magic to women.

Severus had told Archie and Gwillim that he thought I'd be disgusted to hear of his feelings for my mother. He thought that I'd be revolted by my Potions Master's dirty, illicit passion for my pure and beautiful mother. But that wasn't how I saw it at all. Severus' love for Lily touched me in an indescribable way, just as it had brought tears to Dumbledore's eyes.

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But Archie was talking to me...

"Severus," continued Archie, "walks about with a cruel sneer and a black cloak and a Death Mark on his arm. He keeps his heart locked up and hidden, like the warlock in the story. But Harry, his resemblance to the warlock ends there. Severus feeds and nurtures his hidden heart, and it grows more beautiful every day, in secret.

"I know this because I'm his friend and his publisher. When Severus writes, he unlocks his heart and gives us a glimpse of its beauty. Severus has allowed himself to love, but only in secret. The hard part is to penetrate the walls that he's built around himself. "

Archie's words might have sounded exaggeratedly sentimental to an independent observer. But not to me. I remembered again the beautiful silver doe that had come to me on a dark night in the Forest of Dean. I remembered how safe I'd felt in her presence.

That night, I'd caught a glimpse of Severus' heart.

'I know exactly what you mean," I said.

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Gwillim returned just then, with a broad grin and no tea. "Looks like Calpurnia's star struck," he said. "She wanted to bring in the tea for Harry, so I thought I'd allow her to have another glimpse of our famous visitor."

If anyone else had called me 'famous,' I'd have bristled with anger. But Gwillim's affectionate look told me that he was not sardonically ridiculing my fame. He even ruffled my hair as he walked by me. If someone else had done that, I might have resented it, but when Gwillim did it, it actually felt good.

"Archie and I both feel as if we've known you for years, Harry," he said.

Funnily enough, I felt as if I'd known them for years, too. They were like two tolerant, eccentric grandfathers, in whose presence one could completely relax. But before I could tell them how comfortable they made me feel, Calpurnia came in with a tray of steaming hot tea. A cake stand floated to her right, and a stack of plates at her left. A floating tray of sandwiches, toast and marmalade brought up the rear.

I enjoyed that tea with Archie and Gwillim. I had never before seen two men stuff themselves with such obvious enjoyment, and in their company, I was not ashamed to do the same. We stopped talking for a while, and gave ourselves up to companionable crunches, munches and sips of tea.

And suddenly, the question that I'd anticipated came up.

"Didn't I see you at Severus' home the other day, Harry? Did you enjoy your visit?"

Gwillim wasn't prying in the way your common garden nosey parker would pry. If he wanted to know what had happened at Severus' house the other day, it was only because he wanted to help.

I looked at him thoughtfully over a slice of hot buttered toast. Perhaps he could.

"Yes," I said enthusiastically. "I had a lovely afternoon with Professor Snape that day." I proceeded to tell Gwillim about Snape's delicious cooking, our two-man Quidditch match, and how much I'd enjoyed my visit with Snape.

Gwillim and Archie exchanged a puzzled look. If my account of what had happened that day was to be believed, how had Severus ended up with the impression that I hated him?

But I hadn't been lying to them. I really had enjoyed that afternoon with Severus. Until I'd remembered the prophecy.

I said nothing to Gwillim and Archie of the latter part of my visit.

Was that a sort of a lie, to leave large chunks of the truth out of my account of what had happened? Perhaps it was. But I was lying with a reason. I hoped that they'd find an opportunity to tell Severus what I hadn't managed to say to him myself – I hoped they'd tell Severus that I'd really enjoyed his company that day. I truly regretted having allowed all my old anger and prejudice to spoil everything.

But if I hadn't spoken to Snape about all the things he'd done, wouldn't that have been dishonest of me? I had never thought much of friendships based on polite insincerity, and Snape knew as well as I did what our relationship used to be. So what would be the point of pretending that our old hatred had not existed?

But on the other hand, when you're trying to start afresh, is it wise to keep raking up old muck?

Gwillim and Archie attributed my long silence to the fact that I was eating. But it was guilt that had silenced me.

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There was so much about Severus that I longed to know. And here were two people who knew him very well, who could answer all my questions.

"How long have you known Professor Snape?" I asked.

Although I knew how Severus and Gwillim had first met, I wanted to know more. After that day at the station, how had they continued to stay in touch?

"I first met him at King's Cross Station," said Gwillim. "I happened to be there when the Hogwarts Express came in. When I saw a lonely boy there, whose parents had forgotten to meet him at the station, I offered to take him home. After that, Severus came to see me at my office here, to thank me for helping him." Gwillim paused, and looked at me. "I don't know if you're aware, Harry, of what an unhappy life Severus led as a young boy."

"I... know there were problems," I said. "But I don't know much about them."

I had seen Severus' father in the pensieve. Why had he been so violent and abusive? The Dursleys had hated me for a specific reason – they hated my connection with the wizard world. Had there been a reason for Tobias Snape's bad behaviour, or was that just the way he was?

"Severus' father was a Muggle," said Gwillim. "And his mother was a witch. There are many Muggles, Harry, who have an inexplicable, deep rooted prejudice against witches and wizards."

I understood at once. For I'd been brought up by Muggles of that description.

"So Professor Snape's father was prejudiced against witches and wizards?" I asked.

Gwillim nodded. "It was most unfortunate. His mother had been brought up as a witch, but she was forced by her husband to live as a Muggle. Sadly, she found it very difficult – almost impossible – to switch over to this new way of life, as Muggle housekeeping methods are primitive and physically draining. To make matters worse, Severus' father constantly belittled and insulted her, and upset her so much that she could hardly get anything right."

"I understand," I said.

Many of Snape's students had found it almost impossible to function normally in his Potions class, because they had constantly been demeaned and insulted by Professor Snape. Severus' mother must have been a bit like Neville Longbottom. And his father must have been like Professor Snape himself.

"Over the years, I got to know Severus quite well," said Gwillim. "He would often come to see me, and pay me the compliment of confiding in me, and I would wonder what I could do to help him." Gwillim's gentle brown eyes saddened, and the he smiled suddenly at Archie. '...and it was Archie who finally came up with a suggestion. Archie knew how much I worried about this boy who lived in an abusive home. He suggested that we send Severus books on Muggle housekeeping, which would hopefully help Severus' mother come to grips with the tasks that seemed almost too daunting to her. I thought that was a good idea. And so, with the help of a good friend, a young Muggle publisher named Parvesh Patil, we started to send Severus cratefuls of books on Muggle housekeeping, cooking and laundry."

"Severus thanked us enthusiastically for them," continued Archie, "and we thought that his mother found them useful. But we were wrong. His mother was too exhausted and unhappy to make use of them. And so, Severus started reading them himself."

"He devoured those books from cover to cover," said Gwillim, "till he almost knew them by heart. And he began to help his mother at home." Gwillim smiled. "You would have marvelled at the ease with which Severus began to handle Muggle housekeeping tasks, after reading those books we sent him. I always thought that he should have taught Muggle studies at Hogwarts, considering all he knew. He would pick these things up on his own, and then, very patiently and kindly, teach them to his mother. He must have been a very good teacher at Hogwarts, Harry."

"Er...yes," I lied.

Gwillim obviously did not know that his protégé had grown up to be a monster – a replica of Tobias Snape who had insulted and terrified thousands of hapless students.

"And it wasn't only Muggle housekeeping books that we sent him," said Archie. "We sent him our own ones, too. Because we discovered that Severus' school life was not very happy either."

"One day, I received an owl from Severus, who was at Hogwarts, asking me if I would be kind enough to urgently send him a book on laundry in the wizard world," explained Gwillim. "I was somewhat mystified by his request, but sent him what he wanted. I later learned that some boys at Hogwarts had ridiculed the grimy state of his clothes."

I knew better. It was not his clothes, but his underwear that had been ridiculed. And it was not a boy who had done it. It was my mother, Lily Evans, who had commented on the grimy state of Professor Snape's underpants.

'Severus,' I thought, 'I'm so sorry.'

Although I'd had to spend my holidays with the Dursleys, life at Hogwarts had made up for it. I might have been nobody in the Muggle world, but I was Somebody, with a capital S, in the wizard world. What if I'd found Hogwarts as Severus had found it – a place as inhospitable as my home? What kind of a person might I have turned out to be? Cruelty can grow out of pain. I might have grown up to be a monster, too.

But it was Severus the Monster who had written all those tender, sentimental books that made elderly ladies like Mrs Weasley cry.

"I'd love to read his books," I said, changing the subject without meaning to. It was just that my thoughts were meandering in many odd directions, and my words were following them. "Are they on sale downstairs at Flourish & Blott's?"

"Yes they are," said Archie, "but we certainly cannot allow you to go downstairs and buy them. We'd like to give you a set of the Complete Works of Matilda Blott."

"It's the least we can do," said Gwillim. "We were a very small publishing firm, barely breaking even, when all of a sudden, we found that we had a bestselling author on our hands. Matilda Blott. Severus' books made us rich, and we owe it all to you, Harry."

"To me?"

"Yes, Harry, because he wrote them all for you."

As he spoke, Gwillim, with a few neat flicks of his wand, packed a set of books into a carton, and sealed the carton up with sticky tape.

'Thank you," I said, extremely embarrassed.

"Thank _you, _Harry."

"Your friend, Mr. Patil – is he Parvati and Padma's father?" I asked.

Archie smiled. "Yes! Yes of course! Beautiful girls! And their mother Pavitra is beautiful, too. She's very much younger than Mr Patil. She taught me how to wear a sari, a Muggle garment that consists of a length of cloth, draped elegantly around your waist and over your shoulder. I have to tell you that it's an extremely comfortable garment, Harry. For as Gwillim knows, I always like a cool breeze around my..."

'Um – could you give me your address, please, Harry?" asked Gwillim hurriedly.

I gave him the address of the Burrow, but I don't know if I got it right. Because my mind was otherwise occupied. It was busy picturing the tall, bearded figure of Archimedes Holland arrayed in an elegant shocking pink silk sari.

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_Note: My version of the Tale of the Warlock's Hairy Heart is taken from the synopsis of the story published on Amazon(dot)com._


	13. Chapter 13

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**GREASE**

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**Chapter 13**

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Looking at the carton of Matilda Blott books that Gwillim was addressing, I felt a sudden urge to read them at once. I couldn't wait, I thought, until they were delivered to me.

"Er... please don't bother to have them delivered," I said. "I'll take them home myself."

"Are you sure, Harry?" asked Gwillim. "It's rather a large carton."

"It's no problem at all," I said. "And thank you so much for the books..."

Gwillim smiled. "I hope you enjoy them," he said.

"How did he... er...start writing the Matilda Blott books?" I asked.

'That's a long story," said Gwillim. "It all started that day Archie saw you and your mother at Flourish and Blott's... "

"My mother? And me?"

"That's right," said Archie. "And Severus was there, too. I was impressed with the way he changed your nappy, and so I asked him to write a book on baby care for us."

"Professor Snape changed my..." I was sure I hadn't heard him right.

"Your nappy," said Archie, more distinctly. "Your diaper. That's how it all started."

Archie sat back and smiled, assuming that the explanation he'd just given me had answered my question.

I stared at him blankly – the situation he'd described was one that I was simply unable to picture in my mind.

Professor Snape. And my underwear.

Had he swung me into the air upside down, and bellowed _"Scourgify?" _ But if he'd done that, he'd have shocked Archie. Archie was too kind a person to approve of babies being manhandled by Death Eaters. And he'd just said that he was impressed with whatever Severus had done.

Gwillim was watching me, his eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Perhaps Harry would like to see his mother, Archie," he said, gesturing towards the pensieve in his office. "Why don't you show him your memory of it?"

Archie obligingly extracted the shimmering silver strands of memory and gently placed them in the pensieve. "I'll put in some of mine, too," said Gwillim, and proceeded to do so.

I hesitated before diving in. Would it feel good to see my mother, or would it make me sick with grief? The last thing I wanted to do was to fall apart in the presence of Archie and Gwillim. But they were both smiling kindly at me, so I could not refuse. Taking a deep breath, I plunged in.

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I found myself in the familiar environment of Flourish & Blott's. I saw a young woman with a howling baby walk into the shop. It was my mother. Embarrassed by the volume of my howls, she rocked me vigorously in her arms, trying to quieten me down. But my howling grew louder, and began to attract the attention of every customer in the store. Red-faced with embarrassment, my mother tried to hide herself and her loud-mouthed baby, by slinking into a quiet corner between two tall bookshelves. "Harry," she whispered to me, "don't cry, Harry, please - everyone's looking at us..."

Just then a man in a black robe, his thin, hook-nosed face framed by black curtains of greasy hair, entered the store. My mother gave a start, and her eyes stole to the Dark Mark on his arm. The loud yells of the baby in her arms attracted his attention to her.

Seeing Lily and her baby at Flourish and Blott's, Severus stiffened in horror. Why were they out shopping in Diagon Alley, when they ought to have been sheltering in the safety of their hidden home? He rushed across to my mother.

"Lily, what are you doing here," he hissed, anxiety written all over his face. "It isn't safe for you to wander about like this!"

Looking at him, my mother understood at once that he was not "Severus Snape, the Death Eater who might betray her," but was in fact "Severus, the friend who was concerned for her safety."

She visibly relaxed. "You're right, Sev," she said. "I shouldn't come out like this." She stroked my back and gave Severus a helpless look. "But Sev, you don't know what it's like. It's like a prison – the three of us caged in there all the time. We're really starting to get on each other's nerves. Listen to Harry!" She gestured in despair at me, and then looked up at Severus miserably. "I just thought I'd slip in here, have a quiet browse, and slip out again, but look at the row he's kicking up."

I looked at Snape, wondering whether my behaviour as a baby would elicit from him the familiar look of disgust that he'd often turned on me as a Professor at Hogwarts. But surprisingly, he looked concerned.

"Is he in pain, Lily?"

"No, Sev, all he needs is a change."

"A change?" Snape obviously knew nothing about babies.

My mother pointed to my behind. "He needs a change," she said.

"Oh that," said Snape. "You don't need to change him, Lily. You can just clean up what he's wearing. Like this..."

He pointed his wand at me and softly muttered something. My howling stopped at once. I looked up at Severus, and my green eyes met his black ones. He gave me that very special smile that people always reserve for their best friends' children.

"He has your eyes, Lily."

'Yeah," she said. "And my temper, too."

"Nah, you don't have a temper," smiled Snape.

But he gave the baby in Lily's arms a ghost of a wink that Lily didn't see. A little secret joke, shared between Severus and his diminutive new friend.

"Your little shirt looks a bit sweaty," said Snape to me. 'I'll fix that too, shall I?"

He pointed his wand at me again and muttered something else. My residual whimper died down into total silence.

"Everything all right now, Harry?" he asked in the kindest, most gentle voice I'd ever heard from him.

I gurgled enthusiastically and held my arms out to the friendly wizard who was talking to me so kindly.

"Would you like to go to Severus, Harry?" asked my mother.

"No!" said Severus in alarm. "I don't know how to hold babies, Lily! Suppose I drop him or something!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sev," said my mother, handing me over to him. "It's quite easy to hold a baby. There you are. You see? He's very comfortable with you."

I was, in fact, smiling up at Severus. But Severus wasn't smiling back. He was close to tears.

"What's wrong, Sev?"

"Nothing," he said. "I was just thinking of the…bastard who betrayed Harry and his mother and father to the Dark Lord…" his voice faltered. "Lily, I'm so sorry that all these things have happened… I want you to be safe, Lily. Don't go wandering around town like this again, please! You've got to take care of yourself! You shouldn't wander around Diagon Alley as if nothing's wrong…"

My mother gave him an affectionate smile. "I'll be fine, Sev. I'll be absolutely fine. But…" her green eyes looked into his dark ones. "Do you know him, Sev?"

"Who?"

"Do you know who told Voldemort of the prophecy?"

"Yes, I do," said Snape. Somehow, he seemed taller, darker and more stern.

"Kill him for me, will you?" There was pure venom in Lily's voice.

"I've thought of doing that," said Snape, calmly. "Are you sure?"

There was the same look in his eyes that I'd seen when he set fire to the Matilda Blott books, but here it was more intense. Much more intense…

I had looked at many, many memories over the past month, and there had been innumerable times when I'd longed to burst into the past and do something to change it. Somehow, I'd always managed to conquer that impulse to interfere. But now, I felt a scream rising in my throat, and I found myself rushing to Severus, to protect him from harm. But there was no need for me to break through the barriers of time, for my mother was there.

Lily was there to save Severus from himself.

The green eyes looked into the black ones, and they faltered. My mother somehow sensed that whatever Severus was contemplating was something terrible – something she could not approve of.

"No," she said firmly, a hint of fear in her voice. "No, Sev, no! Leave them, Sev. Leave the Death Eaters. Don't have anything to do with them any more! But don't… don't do whatever you were thinking of just now…"

"I… I have left them, Lily. I don't work with them any more. But I cannot undo all the things I've done when I was with them…"

"You couldn't have done anything all that bad…"

"You don't know, Lily…you don't know what I've done – I wish I could talk to someone."

"Tell me, Sev."

She looked into his eyes again. But now the black eyes faltered. And they filled with tears. Snape shook his head, mutely.

Looking at the friend she'd known since she was a child, wracked with guilt for having committed some unknown crime that he so obviously regretted, Lily's vivid green eyes were compassionate and understanding.

"Now that you're no longer a Death Eater…"

Snape nodded, to confirm that he was not. Lily reassuringly put her hand on his arm. The arm with the Dark Mark on it.

"Now that you're no longer one of them, there's something I can tell you, Sev. There are things we know a lot about that they don't. We know about guilt, about remorse, and about forgiveness. There is remorse in our world, and forgiveness too, Sev. So why don't you forget about whatever happened, and move on?"

"Thank you, Lily," he said, almost inaudibly.

She smiled at him reassuringly, and took her baby back from him.

"He's been so comfortable with you, he's fallen asleep," she whispered.

Snape smiled, and gently ran his hand over my bald head. "Harry's one of the few people I've ever met who doesn't look at me with disgust," he said softly, so as not to wake me.

She smiled. "Well, I think it's about time we went home," she said. "G'bye, Sev…"

"Shall I walk you home, Lily," he asked, unthinkingly.

And I could see all my mother's old suspicions flood into her mind again.

"No, thank you, Severus," she said politely, but formally.

Snape inclined his head in a slight bow, equally formally, but could not conceal the hurt in his eyes. Looking back as she walked away, Lily noticed it at once.

She walked back to him. "Sev, I'm sorry – I didn't mean…"

"No, no," he said at once. "It's important for you to be careful, Lily. You shouldn't trust anyone."

"Well, maybe one day, when these hard times are over, and everything is all right again, I could tell you where I live, and you could come over and play with Harry," she said apologetically.

'I'll look forward to that, Lily," he said, managing a smile.

"And I will too, Sev. Well, goodbye."

"G'bye Lily."

As she walked out of Flourish and Blott's, her baby opened his eyes, peeped over her shoulder and gave Severus a toothless grin. The tense, miserable look in Severus' eyes vanished. He smiled a real smile, and waved to his tiny, bald, toothless friend.

"I wonder if I'll ever see you again, Harry," he said to himself, as he made his way out the back of Flourish and Blott's and up the narrow staircase to Gwillim and Archie's office.

"You will, Sev," I muttered. "You will."

x

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The scene shifted to the office upstairs. Gwillim sat at his desk, his reading glasses on his nose, looking at the manuscript before him.

"Severus, you're very knowledgeable on the subject of Potions, but you're just not able to get the tone right. Look at your opening paragraph, for instance…"

He read it out.

"_I can show you the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that slink in secret through human veins, bewitching the mind, enchanting the senses… I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory and even stopper death – if you aren't as big a dunderhead as most students I've encountered…"_

"I worked hard on that," said Severus. "Is it too poetic? Should it be more matter-of-fact?"

"No, that part of it is quite all right, Severus," said Gwillim. "It's just that you need to respect your readers a bit more. A writer cannot call his reader a 'dunderhead' right in the first paragraph…"

"But most students _are_…"

"Severus, that sort of tone is inappropriate for a textbook. Why don't you revise the entire manuscript and show it to me again when it's ready?"

Snape nodded.

"I'm sorry, Severus," said Gwillim, kindly. "It isn't easy to write a textbook, however knowledgeable you might be, and I've known so many…"

Just then, Archie burst excitedly into the room.

"Severus, didn't I just see you downstairs holding your baby?"

Snape nodded, somewhat startled.

"I was watching you, my dear boy, and I have to say that I was most impressed!"

"Huh?" said Snape.

"Gwillim," said Archie, "we must tap this young man's talent. I have never before seen a young father do his children's laundry _while they had their clothes on!"_

"Oh, that," said Snape. "I learnt that from _**Laundry for the Contemporary Witch, **_by Veruca Stanes. That's the book you sent me at Hogwarts, Gwillim. That was so kind of you…" He turned to Archie. "It's all there on page 356. And I'm not the baby's father."

"You're not his father?" asked Archie in surprise. "But he quietened down the instant you took him from your young lady friend…"

Snape shrugged, and grinned modestly.

"…and another thing impressed me, too," said Archie. "The softness and the fresh smell of that tiny shirt!"

"I learnt the fabric softening spell from _**Put a little Love in your Laundry, **_by Pansy Pinkwhistle," said Snape. "…and the fragrance one from _**Ensnare the Senses,**_ by Adelbert and Ariadne Dionysus."

"And how did you dispose of the…er…solid waste from the nappy?" asked Archie.

"That," said Snape modestly, "was a small innovation of my own…"

"And where did you dispose of it, if you don't mind my asking?"

Snape reddened slightly but said nothing. There was a slight smile on his face.

Somewhere, in a different part of town, James Potter would put his hand into his pocket and find there not his expensive dragon-skin wallet, but an unexpected present from his son. This, Archie and Gwillim would never know.

"Tell us, Severus," said Archie encouragingly.

"I'd rather not go into that, if you don't mind," said Severus, "…but let me assure you that it was disposed of in an appropriate manner…"

"Of course, of course," said Archie, putting his hand on Severus' shoulder. "I don't doubt that at all. But Severus, you are a veritable fund of information. I'd like you to write a book for us on laundry for babies."

'I know a thing or two about cooking and housekeeping, too," said Snape. "Thanks to all the books you've sent me."

"Excellent!" said Archie. "Imagine that you're writing a book of advice for the young lady whose baby you were holding. And write down everything you can think of that will help her care for her baby."

"His name is Harry," said Snape.

"Harry? Excellent! Write a book for Harry and his mother, and have the manuscript on my table as soon as you can."

"But I have to revise my Potions textbook too…" said Severus.

Gwillim spoke up all of a sudden. "Go ahead and finish Archie's work first, Severus."

Snape thanked them both earnestly and walked out into the sunshine, his face wreathed in a dazzling smile.

"For Lily and Harry," he said to himself, as he got onto his broom and soared up into the azure sky.

And so, for a brief space, Severus allowed himself to hope that the terrible mistake he had made would not end in tragedy after all. But a man named Peter Pettigrew was waiting – waiting for his moment of glory with the Dark Lord: waiting to bring Severus' hopes to nought.

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I don't know which of the two scenes I'd witnessed had disturbed me more. Had it been the look in Severus' eyes as he'd contemplated taking his own life? Or had it been the smile on his face as he looked forward to the future with hope, not knowing that his world was about to crash to pieces and fall apart? I don't know which it was.

All I know is that I staggered out of the pensieve feeling slightly sick. I gave Archie and Gwillim what must have been a dazed stare, and I realised for the first time what people mean when they talk about 'seeing stars' – little pinpoints of silver light began to dance before my eyes.

"He's going to faint," cried out Gwillim's concerned voice. Archie and Gwillim rushed to me. I felt a strong arm supporting me and I was gently propelled to a comfortable couch and made to sit down.

"I'm all right," I said, embarrassed. "I'm fine!"

"Just relax, Harry," said Gwillim. "Lean on me. Take a couple of deep breaths and you'll feel better."

I did as I was told, and did start to feel better – not so much because of the deep breaths, but more because of Gwillim's comforting presence beside me.

"What's wrong, Harry?" he asked quietly. "What happened?"

"It was something I saw," I said.

Gwillim and Archie exchanged a puzzled look.

"What memories did you put in there, Archie?" asked Gwillim.

"It was just the one of Severus talking to Harry and his mother," answered Archie. "But I didn't hear the whole conversation. I only saw him change Harry's nappy. Perhaps Harry heard something that I didn't."

"But how is that possible?" I asked. "It's your memory, isn't it?"

"It was my memory, Harry," explained Archie, "…but once you dive into a pensieve you see the whole scene as it actually happened. And sometimes you see more – much more than the person whose memory it is actually noticed or saw."

So Archie hadn't heard Severus and my mother talk about the man who'd told Voldemort of the prophecy.

"What did you see, Harry?"

"I saw… something that shocked me," I said. Somehow I couldn't tell them of the deed that Severus had contemplated.

'Would it be easier for you to talk to someone else?" asked Gwillim, looking at the golden eagle that was perched on the empty chair behind his desk.

A golden eagle… "Aquila!" I exclaimed, excitedly. He flew to me at once, but didn't perch on my unprotected arm, for fear of hurting me. He perched on the arm of my sofa.

I gently stroked his feathered back. "Are you all right, Aquila? Did Mrs Weasley hurt you when she whacked you with my Firebolt?"

Aquila spread out his wings to show me that he was fine.

"Aquila?" said Gwillim, interested. "Is that what you call him? But Harry, do you know who he really is?"

"What d'you mean," I asked, perplexed.

"Aquila is an Animagus," explained Gwillim. "He is someone you know very well."

I turned to look at the golden eagle perched by my side, and to my amazement, he began to transform. He transformed into someone I did indeed know very well. I knew that hooked nose extremely well. And I knew the long, black no-longer-greasy hair pretty well, too.

Severus smiled at Gwillim and Archie, and then turned to look at me. It was a look that was difficult to describe – sort of shy, wistful, apologetic, nervous and affectionate, all at once.

I continued to stare at him in amazement.

"Why don't you two go down to Florean's for an ice-cream," suggested Gwillim.

I nodded, and turned to pick up Mrs Weasley's parcel, and the carton of Matilda Blott books.

"Don't worry about those parcels, Harry – we'll have them delivered to the Weasley residence for you," said Archie.

"In fact, I'm going that way, so I'll drop them off right away," said Gwillim.

"Thank you so much," I said, "It was wonderful to meet you."

They grinned affectionately at me.

"The pleasure was entirely ours, Harry."

I shook hands with them solemnly, then turned somewhat nervously to look at the man that Aquila had turned into.

"Shall we, er…" I asked.

He nodded and took my hand. We apparated together to Florean's café.

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Everything about Florean was large, warm and overpowering.

"HARRY!" he roared, "How are you, Harry?"

I was unable to answer his question because my face had been rammed into his enormous front as he hugged me ecstatically.

"Good to see you!" he said, perhaps unnecessarily.

Before I could respond, I was propelled to the nearest table and found myself ensconced in a comfortable chair.

Florean rapped his wand smartly on the table and a sundae glass more enormous than I'd ever seen before, appeared in front of me.

"What shall we start with," asked Florean. "A couple of scoops of chocolate ice-cream? All right! A scoop each of butterscotch, strawberry and vanilla? There you are! Hot fudge sauce? Yes. Some fruit? Nuts? Marshmallows? Bananas? Shall I crumble some malteasers into it?"

I had no quarrel with Florean's choice of ingredients. If this was my reward for ridding the world of Voldemort, all the pain and hardship had been worth it.

"Fresh cream? Hundreds and thousands? A scoop of mint and chocolate chip ice cream?"

"Florean," I protested at last, "I think we'd better stop now…"

"Nonsense," he roared, tapping the glass with his wand to enlarge it further.

When at last he was done, he gave his creation a satisfied look, supplied me with a spoon, and whacked me on the back.

"Enjoy!" he said to me. "And what will you have, Severus? Would you like to try my new Oriental fried ice cream with date pancakes?"

Severus smiled and nodded.

Florean produced a heaped plateful of fried ice-cream for Severus, decorated with honey, nuts and candied ginger, and whacked Severus on the back, too.

"I'll leave you two together for a moment," he said. And he rushed off to enthusiastically welcome his next customer.

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Severus and I sat at Florean's table together, shaded by a rainbow umbrella, having so much to say to each other that we did not know where to start. I gave him a red-faced, embarrassed grin which he returned. We sat in almost total silence for a while.

"Er - Professor Snape," I said at last, in a voice that seemed to belong to someone else, "I…er…got this for you."

I handed him the luridly coloured purple and orange eraser that I'd picked up for him from George's shop.

"Thank you, Harry."

He was polite enough not to reveal that he was puzzled by my strange gift.

"It's…um…it's an ink blot eraser. It erases the blot, but doesn't erase the writing underneath it."

"I see," he said. "Er, thank you, Harry."

"If there's writing, or a picture, or a photograph underneath the blot, this eraser won't rub it out," I explained.

He understood at once what my gift was for. Putting his hand into the pocket of his cloak, he pulled out his most prized possession. A picture of my mother that he carried around with him everywhere. The one that he'd obliterated with sepia ink.

With a shaky hand, he gently rubbed George's brightly coloured eraser over it. Slowly, stroke by stroke, she began to emerge from behind the sepia ink – the most beautiful lady in the world. My mother. I gazed and gazed at her, forgetting Severus, forgetting Florean, Florean's ice-cream sundae -- forgetting everything there was to forget. Severus held her picture up in a golden ray of light – all the ink was gone, and she was smiling at us again.

Severus sat quietly beside me, looking at Lily with a tenderness that I'd never seen in his dark eyes before. I found myself wishing that she were alive and could respond to him.

I had looked so many times into photographs and mirrors, wishing that the people I saw in them would come alive and talk to me. I thought of all the times I'd looked into the mirror of Erised and seen my parents there. I thought of Hagrid's gift to me – the photo album with my parents waving out from every page. I thought of all the times I'd looked into the shard of Sirius' mirror, and thought I'd seen Dumbledore's blue eye looking out at me. Ron had sworn that Dumbledore was alive and would come to help me. And in a way, Dumbledore _had_ helped me. Had asked Aberforth to do for me what he could not do himself…

Blue eyes…green eyes. Aberforth's eyes were exactly like Dumbledore's, and mine were like my mother's. Could I do as Aberforth had done? As he had acted for Dumbledore, could I speak for Lily?

"Severus –" I said, so softly that he didn't hear me. I couldn't continue. Severus was my Potions Professor. And you cannot very well give a Potions Professor your love. I was wading deep into uncharted waters here…

"Severus, er…"

"Yes, Harry?" he asked absently, still gazing at the photograph.

How could I put it?

"I…er…um."

The word 'love' was probably the only four letter word that I was too embarrassed to utter. I couldn't bring myself to say that I loved him. Neither could I say that I liked him. Could I say that I enjoyed his company? I could, but wasn't that too watered down a version of the idea I was trying to express? Yes, it was.

I was trying to tell Severus that even though Lily was no longer around to be his best friend, Lily's son would take her place. But I possessed neither the courage nor the linguistic skill to express an idea like that.

"The most beautiful person in the whole world," said Severus, still gazing into the photograph.

I nodded, in wholehearted agreement.

"…and I called her a mudblood," he added.

Not wanting to create a riveting emotional scene for Florean's patrons to enjoy, Severus disapparated with a pop. I clutched at his shoulder just in time and found myself in his kitchen, along with him.

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Not knowing that I was there, Severus sat at his kitchen table, tears dripping off the end of his beaky nose, looking at the picture of the girl he'd called a mudblood.

"Sev, that was years ago," I said.

Startled, he turned around to look at me.

"I'm sorry I followed you – but I couldn't leave you alone like this," I said apologetically.

He tried to smile. "I'm all right," he said. "It's just… it's just that when you got her picture back, out of the blue like that, I wasn't prepared for it."

I told him that I hadn't been prepared for it, either. The sudden appearance of a smiling Lily Potter had moved us both.

"Harry," said Severus, "I … know I've done everything a person could possibly do to ruin your life, but if there's anything I could do to make things better for you now…"

"As a matter of fact, there is something you could do for me," I said.

"What is it, Harry?"

"You've been blaming yourself, beating up on yourself, for years and years now. I want you to stop doing that. I want you to forgive a certain Severus Snape for all the mistakes he's made, and all the things he's done."

"Harry, I can't do that. You know I can't do that. This is the hardest thing you could ever have asked me to do…"

"Sev…" I sat down beside him and put my arm around him. "Will you listen to me?"

"No," he said.

"Well, I've listened to all your lousy Potions classes, so I really do think you ought to listen to me. Sev, you can't go on living like this. What I saw in the pensieve was…" I couldn't find the words for it. Had I been shocked? Terrified? Appalled?

"What did you see in the pensieve, Harry?"

"Sev, I saw you…" I flung both my arms around him and clung to him, holding him tight in a close, protective grip. "Sev, don't ever think of that again!"

"Think of what?"

"I heard you talk to my mother about the prophecy…"

He understood what I meant at last.

"You saw that, Harry?"

"Sev, how could you ever think of doing something like that!" I burst out, tightening my hold on him with the vague, illogical idea of protecting him better by holding him closer.

"So that was what frightened you?"

"Frightened me? It terrified me! It shocked me! It was appalling… Sev, how could you!"

"I felt… so guilty, Harry. So miserably guilty about what I'd done… and I still feel guilty even now. I'm so sorry, Harry. I wish … how I wish I could bring Lily and James back to care for you… and Sirius, too –"

I couldn't see his face. But from the occasional catch in his breath, the occasional sniffle, and the way he was clinging to me, I realised that Snivellus was living up to his name again. And I helplessly wished that I knew more of the language that Mrs Weasley had spoken of. The special language that people use when they talk to people they love.

Not being fluent in that language, I began to do what anyone learning a new language would do… put together sentences and phrases of the language that I'd heard other people use, bending and stretching other people's words to try express my own thoughts.

"Try to relax, Sev," I said, as Gwillim had said to me. "Lean on me. Take some deep breaths, and you'll start to feel better." At my words, Severus' breathing became more ragged and irregular than before, and his sniffling more pronounced.

Then I tried to remember what George had said to me.

"Sev, I've blamed everyone alive, including myself, for my parents' deaths. But I know you've blamed yourself harder than I could ever have blamed you. So I dunno what to say, Sev. I'll be here whenever you need me…"

My garbled version of the kind words that George had spoken to me produced the opposite effect from that which was desired.

I swore to myself, and tried to remember what the black haired man at Flourish & Blott's had said to calm down the howling baby. For Severus' tears now equalled that baby's in intensity, though not in volume. The man had said, 'Your little shirt looks sweaty. I'll fix that, shall I?'

No, I couldn't use that.

I racked my brains, trying to think of what else I could possibly say to make him feel better. What had Professor McGonagall said to Severus in her office, that day my father had humiliated him? She had turned into a cat, leapt onto his lap and licked his tears away. But if I turned into an animal, it would most probably be a stag. And if, as a stag, I leaped onto Severus' lap, I'd gore him in various places with my hooves and antlers.

What else had Professor McGonagall said? She'd asked him if he'd feel better if he went home for a few days. Perhaps I could tweak that a bit and make use of it…

"Sev," I said aloud, "would you feel better if I got out of here?"

I had hoped he'd say "no." But he said "yes."

"Yeah," he said. "I would feel a lot better if you got out of here. All these kind things you're saying to me make me feel more guilty than I've ever felt before."

Perhaps Severus' condition was contagious, for all of a sudden, I found I'd caught it, too. For no apparent reason, I found myself in tears. This was stupid. This was idiotic. This wasn't going to help. I wanted so much to make Severus feel better. But I couldn't think of a way to do that at all.

"What's wrong, Harry," he asked.

"Every damn thing I've ever done is wrong," I said. "I'm going to give it all up and become a Death Eater."

"What!"

"Yeah," I said. "A friend of mine said it felt good. My best friend was a Death Eater, and he said it felt really good to be one."

"Your… your best friend?"

The black eyes looked into the green ones.

"Yeah," I said shakily, my voice seeming to come not from me, but from somewhere outside the room. "My very best friend."

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	14. Chapter 14

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**GREASE**

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**Chapter 14**

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In the empty, aching stillness of my room, I would dream of a pair of green eyes looking at me with love. It was my saddest dream, as I knew that it would never become a reality.

But that day, it did become real.

It was not as I'd imagined it to be, but it was in many ways more beautiful.

Is the love of a child inferior to the love of a woman? Far from it. Harry's love was different from what Lily's might have been, had I ever known it. His green eyes penetrated farther than hers, and found something good in someone she'd found to be repulsive.

Harry was as tall as I was, by then. But to me he was still a child. The child that I brought up in my imagination, because I had no family of my own. The child I was never allowed to adopt in reality. The child I loved in secret when I actually met him, for fear that my love would seem repulsive to those penetrating green eyes.

I'd never thought that Harry's green eyes would see beyond the hooked nose, and the greasy hair. But they had. And they'd also been undistracted by the glares, the sneers and the insults - all the red herrings that I had carefully placed in their way. All of which were meant to distract him from the truth. The uncomfortable truth that I'd always tried hide from Harry, and even from myself - the fact that I loved him. I always had, and always would.

Yes, I'd tried for years to hide this truth from Harry. And being an accomplished occlumens, I did succeed for a while. But that day, I could see that I'd failed. His green eyes looked deep into my black ones and they smiled. "You can't fool me any more," they seemed to say. "I know now that you love me." And I had to admit that I was glad I'd failed.

My eyes smiled back into his, as the sun caught the shining leaves of the tree outside the window. "You cheeky boy," I said wordlessly to him, "to dare to look beyond what I allowed you to see, and explore my deepest secrets…" Should I have deducted fifty points from Gryffindor for his cheek? Or punished him with a detention?

I did not.

I enfolded him in my arms and held him close to me. After years and years of searching for him - and still more years of hiding from him - I had found my lost boy.

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End file.
